


rouge on the lens

by goldbooksblack



Series: rouge on the lens [1]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - 1940s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - New York City, Alternate Universe - Paris, Alternate Universe - Rome, Alternate Universe London, Alternate Universe WWII, Berlin (City), F/M, Nessian - Freeform, New York City, Photography, over the decades
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-06-10 17:40:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 38,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15296658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldbooksblack/pseuds/goldbooksblack
Summary: In which Cassian is a photographer and Nesta is the face behind the camera in different lifetimes.Or, four times Cassian and Nesta miss each other and one time they don't.





	1. paris, 1925

**Author's Note:**

> **French is courtesy of four failed years of class and Google Translate. Don’t flame me pls i am but a simple american
> 
> English translations are noted in the end notes!

**Paris, 1925**

They met in a blaze of alcohol.

She was standing at the bar, cigarette dangling from one hand, a drink from the other. Emerald fabric slid as she moved, pooled as she halted, the dress doing little to hid her Junoesque body. Medium-colored hair—color of _café au lait_ —framed her face in loose waves, so unlike the girls of that year and the years before.

He was unable to resist her—unable to resist a great many things, actually, but especially her—and soon he was standing before her. She didn’t look up from her drink, the amber liquid stilling as she set it down on the bar once more. He waved to the bartender. _“Je voudrais ce qu’elle a.”_ His French was shaky, even after nearly a year of being in Paris. But the bartender nodded, disappearing into the maze of liquor behind the bar.

He leaned against the counter, his dark eyes taking in all of her. _“Bonjour, mademoiselle. Comment allez-vous?”_

She looked up at him then, and it was then that he noticed her eyes. Striking blue-gray, the color of a sky before storm. He held his breath as they roamed over his body. _“Vous n’êtes pas français, oui? Vous ressemblez à un american. Ou un britannique, non? Vous devez être l’un d’artistes énervants.”_

He didn’t understand a word she’d said, and his silence must have been response enough, because she turned away from him and smirked. _“Mademoiselle—”_ he tried.

“So which one are you? American or British?” Her voice was crisp. Clearly American, without the roughness of certain British accents and without the rainy day slowness of others. No, it was all sharp edges and pronounced r’s, long vowels here and short vowels there.

“British.”

“Hmm.”

The drink slid over to him, and he took a sip. It burned down his throat, an apple-like taste in its wake.

“And you’re American.”

“Clearly.”

He extended a hand, one that she merely stared at. “Cassian.” She raised an eyebrow. “When someone extends a hand, you generally accept it.”

“I thought this was the new age,” she said, taking a long drag of her cigarette. “New freedoms.”

“Well, in that case, can I at least borrow a light?”

She grunted, withdrawing a silver lighter from next to her. Cassian leaned forward, the edge of his cigarette just catching on the flame before leaning back. He took his place against the bar, looking out onto the club. Just over half the room was occupied, an eclectic mix of businessmen and young women, accessorized like the woman next to him, drink in one hand, cigarette in the other. And now like him, he supposed.

“So why are you here?”

She turned, and finally he could see the full extent of her face. Stormy eyes came to compliment moon-pale skin, peach-colored cheeks, and dark scarlet lips.

She was a Paris rainstorm.

“I’m sorry?” Her tone was sharp. “Perhaps I should ask why _you_ are here.”

“No,” he said hastily. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean it in a confrontational way.”

“So how did you mean it?”

“It’s three in the afternoon.”

“And?”

Cassian gestured to the scene in front of them. “There’s no one here. Paris is all about the nightlife, is it not?”

She took the last sip from her drink. The cigarette sizzled as she pushed it into a gilded ashtray. “I wouldn’t know. Have a good day, _monsieur.”_ Her loose skirt swished around her legs. Men and women alike turned as she walked through the center of the room, head high and eyes direct.

“Wait!” Cassian hastily stuck his fingers into his coat pockets, slapping down a ten franc note on the bar before running after her. Those eyes. That silhouette. He had to know her name, even if he couldn’t know her. “Please!”

She stopped before the entrance, already on the staircased platform above the floor itself. Three steps separated them. Cassian halted behind her. “Please, I—I just need to know your name. That’s . . . that’s all.”

She didn’t turn, and Cassian was afraid she would leave in the end. Walk out the door like any other girl in Paris. He was sure it happened hundreds of times a day.

But she didn’t.

She turned around. She was steps higher than him, and he felt the peculiar effect of watching someone watch him. Her eyes were tempestuous.

He could have dreamed it all up, caught in the clouds of cigarette smoke, but—

“It’s Nesta. Nesta Archeron.”

~*~

Weeks passed.

_Nesta Archeron._

He thought about it at least once a day, frequented the same fateful bar once a week, and photographed other girls once a month. All that were attractive, all that were flirtatious, and all that were not her. He had to deny them each time, feigning illness or other appointments.

It was an exhausting existence. And for what? For a woman he’d met once, in a bar.

Paris was a maze of tall buildings—sunlight shuttering through some windows and reflecting off some—and cafés swarmed with people. Men of all businesses, women of all personalities. It was a culture of the Parisians, so much so that Cassian had lost interest mere days and one photo after his first day in the city. But Paris was different from London. London was all smoky ash and gray gloom, skies darkened by the clutter of squat buildings, neither impressive nor useful. Cars, equally boxy as their stationary counterparts, rocked along the roads, almost as if they would tip over any moment. But most of all, most of all what Cassian hated was the inability of Londoners to divide. To divide, and differentiate. Paris was disparaged, perhaps, because of its people’s intimacy with art, and drink, and food—things that London detested. But it was precisely the intimacy with art and drink and food that converted Cassian.

There was nothing left for him in London.

There was everything to be had in Paris.

So he stumbled along the banks of the Seine, stumbled into _la huitième arrondissement_ , and onto _L’Avenue des Champs-Élysées._ Cassian stood at the end of the street, looking forwards. Past the stores, past the people, past the trees lining the sides. _L’Arc de Triomphe_ met him at the very end, rising up from the ground like a pearly gate. It seemed to welcome and condemn at the same time. A shiver ran up his spine, and it was impossible to turn away.

His camera was up to his eye in moments, hands deft as they held the device in place. He knew he only had enough money to take pictures a few times a month, less if he searched for models, but this, _this_ was impossible to walk past. The majesty of the arc, the delicate frame of it around the avenue, it—

“So you’re a photographer.”

The camera slid from his hands and nearly crashed to the ground, only landing safely in his palm seconds before disaster. Cassian whipped around.

Nesta stood before him, no longer dressed in flapper attire but in a black dress cinched at the waist, showing even more of her curves than she had the first encounter. Her face was only shadowed by a matching black cloche, the narrow brim enough to hide her sharp eyes. After weeks of looking for her, it was she that had found him.

“I thought I was,” he said, eyeing her. And then his camera, suddenly feeling so fragile in his hands. “But photos require precision.”

“And you do not have precision?”

He lifted his eyes to meet hers. “Perhaps I did, before you.”

Her eyebrows raised, and she looked like she was fighting within herself. For what, he does not know. And he cannot know, for if there is anything he has learned about this woman, it is that she will never—

A hand. Gloved in the same black, extended. Towards him. “Perhaps we did not have the best first meeting. Nesta Archeron.”

A moment of hesitation. Cloaked in the same gray sludge he had left behind in London. But a hand, extended enough to grasp its smaller match. “Cassian Tassos.”

~*~

She sat in the half shadow, half light position underneath the café canopy, and he knew he was gone.

“Will you let me photograph you?” He blurted out.

Nesta’s eyebrow arched. But it wasn’t the typical protest he’d expected, or heard from other women—that photography distorted the figure, that only loose women allowed themselves to be photographed, no—

“But you hardly know me.”

Cassian blinked at the reply. It was true; they had barely interacted with each other, even after their second encounter, save for a few café excursions and city walks. What he meant to say was, “You’re beautiful and this lighting is to die for.”

What he really said was, “I hardly think it matters.”

“So you think me to be another one of your models, charmed by a British gentleman into giving him everything for absolutely nothing?”

Oh, if Rhys and Azriel could hear her call him a gentleman. “That wasn’t what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

“You’re beautiful,” he couldn’t help himself. “And it would be—”

“—what?” She snapped. “A shame? To miss having a memory of me? Because I’m—I’m—” Nesta struggled for the word.

“Beautiful.” The word left his lips before he could think about it, and he was afraid he’d said the wrong thing, lost in the blaze of her eyes and the curve of her lips. And he was sure he’d said the wrong thing when Nesta rose from her seat, turned away, and began walking towards the exit. Cassian leaned back in his chair, exhaling a deep breath through his nose. He’d spent weeks searching for her, yearning for her, and for what? To have him say something idiotic and to have her leave. Without even one picture.

“Aren’t you coming?”

It was barely a whisper of air in the crowded cafe, and later he’d call it a miracle, that he’d even hear her. But Cassian lifted his head.

Dark brown eyes met stormy gray-blue ones, and they created a story of their own.

~*~

“Why are you a photographer?”

They’d gone back to his apartment. Cassian was embarrassed at the white-washed walls, at the location in the city’s less wealthier _arrondissements_ , so different from the obvious wealth Nesta was accustomed to. But if she hadn’t been led away by his already less-than outfits, he supposed a less-than apartment wasn’t out of the question. He’d chosen this apartment for artistic reasons (and because he was dirt poor); sunlight streamed in from the large windows decorating one entire wall, lighting up the honey-golden wood floors. At the right time of day, one could even see the lights of the city below, hear the bustle of people as they walked by.

She’d acquiesced without protest  as Cassian directed her as to where to stand, how to look—a surprise to him as much as it seemed to her.

Cassian looked up as he knelt on the floor, attempting to ascertain the best position. “Pardon?”

“Why did you choose to be a photographer?” Nesta traced a finger along the velour backing of his sofa, one of the few furniture items he’d bothered to buy. “You could have become something else entirely. You could have gone into the bond business. Or become a stocks tradesman.”

“Yes, but then what would be the point?” Cassian brushed his hair out of his face.

She perched on the sofa. “To earn money. Life runs on money.”

“Not for me.”

“For everyone.”

“Why would I bother,” Cassian grunted as he pulled himself to his feet, “a couple of strips of paper and hard metal pieces? Money doesn’t last forever. It’s gone in an instant.”

“And photography?” Nesta drew her hair back, the humidity of the Paris spring seeping into the room. “What about that?”

“Well, that’s the beauty of photography, isn’t it?” Drawled Cassian. “That in a snap, whatever is before your eyes is saved, forever? In photographs, one can see everything there is to know about the world, no?”

Nesta did not reply, and Cassian smirked to himself. “Here,” he offered instead, pointing to a spot on the floor. “The lighting is best here.”

~*~

He’d been wrong.

He’d been wrong. Photography was close, but it wasn’t perfect. It couldn’t be; not in black and white and mere shadows and light—no, it was far from perfect. Could photography capture the vibrance of navy blue fabric on the golden floors? Could photography capture the exact shade of one’s skin on someone else’s? Could photography capture those flawless eyes, the ones staring up at him from—

Fingers grasped at the front of his shirt as she kissed him, their legs already tangled and pressed into the cushions. He could smell her lavender scent, could feel the _rat-tat-tat_ pulse in her neck as he came down to suck on it.

It had started like any other shoot. Any of the other dozen shoots they’d done since the first.

“Here?” Nesta had asked, standing against the wall. Cassian had nodded, swallowing harshly. Today she’d worn a dark, calf-length dress. Less flapper-esque than the trend of the day with its a-line cut, but still emulated the looseness. The neckline dipped down in a sharp vee, a pane of nude cloth rising up from the sharp end the only saving grace of modesty. A tan coat and black heels completed the outfit.

He’d taken a few shots before gesturing to her coat. “It’s hot. Are you sure you don’t want to take it off?” Indeed, the weather had only gotten hotter and more humid as the city acclimated to summer.

“Oh. I suppose so,” she’d said. The coat had slipped off her shoulders easily, spreading on the floor behind her. Nesta had exhaled, the red heat flush in her cheeks diminishing. “That’s much better.”

Cassian had felt his throat tighten at the sight of her—more of her now that the coat was no longer covering her skin. “Right.”

“But it’s still quite hot,” Nesta had said, eyes fixed on him. “Perhaps the coat wasn’t enough.”

Eyes fixed on him.

Fixed on him as she’d stepped out of her shoes. Cassian had watched, mesmerized as her feet hit the ground, seeming so much shorter than with the heels.

Eyes fixed on him.

Cassian had bitten the inside of his cheek to control himself.

Nesta had reached for the hem of her dress. Fabric fisted in her hand, she raised her arms above her body. The dress and corselette came with it, and soon, they too were discarded on the floor.

She stood before him in nothing but a brassiere, underwear, and stockings.

He didn’t know which one of them had moved first, him or her, but suddenly she’d been pressed up against the wall, legs clenched around his waist. He’d scrabbled at her, attempting to tear off what remaining clothes she had. She’d exhaled in a breathy laugh as he failed.

But now they were on the sofa. That goddamn sofa. He stopped as Nesta laid her hands on his chest, breathing heavily under him.

He’d never noticed that the couch was the same shade of blue as her eyes.

Cassian allowed his forehead to rest against hers. “Have . . . have you ever done this before?”

“No,” she whispered. Her eyes darted back and forth, as if searching for an answer to an unasked question in his eyes. “No.”

“I—”

“Touch me,” she whispered. She closed her fingers around his wrist. He held back a breath as she guided it to her breast. “Touch me.”

Hands shaking, he maneuvered his other hand to the strap of her brassiere, watching as it slipped off her shoulders. He heard Nesta hiss as he laid his hand on her breast. He heard her moan as he shaped his lips around her nipple.

Cassian slid his mouth downwards, down, down, down until he came to her underwear. His fingers tucked themselves underneath the band, although he tugged to no avail. With a low growl, he yanked roughly at it, tearing her stockings in the process. He heard Nesta huff. It turned into a moan as he pressed his tongue against the top of her folds.

He could hear no protests from Nesta as cries of pleasure escaped her lips. Her fingers searched for purchase in the soft couch, but they could find none. Cassian hummed as they threaded into his hair and pulled instead. Smirking softly, he pressed a finger against her opening. She inhaled sharply, but said nothing. One finger had her pressing her lips together. Two had her keening as Cassian spread her.

He finally sat up on his knees from his position between her legs, over her once more. It was his turn to grip the ends of his shirt and tug them over his head. A tug on his pants and underwear bared it all. He heard Nesta take a breath at the sight of him. “We do not have to do this.”

Her hands slid up his bare chest, as if testing the waters. Cassian wondered if he could feel the beat of his heart, the same _rat-tat-tat_ marathon her own pulse had been sprinting. “But I want to.”

He pressed at her entrance, and she exhaled. And then he was pushing inside, bit by bit, until she whimpered—in pain. Cassian froze, although his hands seemed to have a mind of their own as they reached down to caress her cheek. “Nesta.”

“I’m fine,” she said, although there was strain in her voice. “Keep—keep going.”

He acquiesced, and soon he was pressed to the hilt. Cassian began to move slowly, although after a few strokes Nesta whined, her hands sliding down to his hips. “Faster,” she murmured. He grinned.

They both moaned as his cock began to pump in and out of her faster, as she began to clench around him. Cassian let out a breathy laugh as he felt her nails press into his back, her own voice strained as she cried out loud enough for all the neighbors—and the Parisians outside—to hear. He slid his hand down, until his thumb was pressing against the round edge of her bundle of nerves. Nesta let out a loud moan as he began to stroke it, the inverse rhythm of his thrusts.

“Won’t you say it, sweetheart?” He murmured, leaning down so that his face was in the crook of her neck.

“Say—say what?” She asked, breathless.

“My name,” he murmured.

He began to thrust himself deeper, quicker inside her, the rising feeling in his stomach alerting him to his finish. “Say it, Nesta,” he crooned.

“C—Cassian,” she whimpered. “Cassian, I—” she let out a loud cry as her nails dug into his shoulders and her entire body froze as she was plunged into the throes of climax, her breath ragged as she sank down into the cushions.

He couldn’t take it anymore, buried deep inside her. Cassian withdrew and finished himself off with a few pumps, unable to stop the soft groan that escaped from his throat as he did. Exhaling sharply, he settled against Nesta, who was still staring at the wall, the force of her climax shocking her into silence.

Cassian drew her into his arms, her head settling against his chest. He looked over her shoulder at the floor, littered with their abandoned clothes. Her dress, shoes, coat, and corselette near the wall. Her underwear, stockings, and his clothes at the sofa. It was almost like breadcrumbs marking their path.

The morning after, he would gently disentangle himself from Nesta—still sleeping soundly in his bed—to take a photo of it.

He called it _blue-gray storm._

~*~

“Where should we go?” He asked, breathless as Nesta tugged his hand. “Or, more accurately, where are we going?” Cassian caught her hand and pulled her towards him. She laughed as he raised his arm and twirled her under. Nesta landed snugly against his chest. He held her close. “We’ve been walking forever, Nes.”

“Don’t call me Nes,” she grumbled, stepping away from him.

“That wasn’t what you were saying last night,” he smirked. “Very much the opposite, if I remember correctly.” Cassian watched as her cheeks reddened.

“We’re going to my favorite place in the city,” she decided to say.

“Which is where?”

“You’ll see.”

A few minutes later, they stood at the end of an outside courtyard, flanked by a row of old, tan buildings on either side. A cobbled street led down to a grand domed building, capped with teal roofs. The front of the building was columned—Corinthian, he guessed, although he doubted he was right—in a Greco-Roman style. All around them, people milled around, dressed in clothes more like Nesta’s neat daywear and less like Cassian’s casual dress.

“The Sorbonne?” He asked. “I’ve been here many times, sweetheart.”

But even as he said it, he was wrong. (He was turning out to be wrong about a lot of things in this relationship.) There was no way to say that without noticing Nesta’s eyes in the sun, the way the light illuminated the corona-like galaxy of gold around her pupils. There was no way to say that without noticing the way Nesta’s hair became burnished gold in the sunlight, or the way her skirt seemed to ruffle in the light wind.

He brings his camera up to his eye without telling her, and he takes a photograph. He decides on the name then and there: _sorbonne gold._

~*~

He hoped he wasn’t at the wrong address.

Nesta’s apartment building was a limestone affair, with balconied rooms and flowers on each level. Windows were outlined in dark paint, the contrast so striking that Cassian was tempted to stop on the street and take a photo.

He noted the way the doorman eyed him with no shortage of suspicion. It wasn’t wholly unwarranted; he doubted many of the patrons that came in through the same doors were dressed as loosely as he was. If anything, the doorman was nothing compared to the concierge.

 _“Puis-je assister à vous, monsieur?”_ The man asked, polite. Even as his eyes narrowed at Cassian’s dress. And untailored facial hair, he supposed. And long hair, but—

“Uh—” he searched for the right words in his vocabulary. French was a volatile language; one wrong pronunciation and you could tell someone to fuck off by accident. _“Je cherche une dame? Elle s’appelle Nesta Archeron.”_

_“Mademoiselle Archeron est sortie hier.”_

He’d known something was wrong when she hadn’t called on him in a week, but what the hell did the concierge mean that she’d left? _“Desolé? Je—je ne comprends pas.”_

The man squinted at him, and Cassian was ready to put up a fight if he was ordered to leave. _“Est-ce-que vous êtes Monsieur Tassos?”_

He blinked. _“Oui.”_

 _“Un moment, s’il vous plaît.”_ The concierge disappeared somewhere into a back room, coming back with with a sealed envelope. _“Mademoiselle Archeron a laissé ça pour vous.”_

Cassian took the envelope from him gingerly. _“Merci.”_

Neither the concierge nor the doorman said another word to him as he left.

~*~

_Dear Cassian,_

_I don’t know how to tell you this. Any of this._

_I’ve been lying to you._

_You never asked what I was doing in Paris, nothing beyond what you said to me at our first meeting, so I never elaborated. I should have._

_I am going back to the States. There I have a family—or what is left of it. My father and my two sisters. And my fiancé._

_Paris is . . . Paris is my escape. My destination in my tour of Europe. I ran away to London days after my father announced my engagement. I wonder if we would have met._

_I am sorry. I am so sorry. I am sorry for leading you on. I am sorry for not telling you. But most of all, I am sorry that you put so much of yourself out. That you gave me so much, and I gave you nothing._

_I don’t want this wedding. And I can hear you saying, well, why not call it off?_

_I cannot._

_My sisters would never ask me to come home if they know I don’t want to. Even my father, while foolish, is not cruel. He would not ask me to come home either . . . if they knew that I am happier here. In Paris, and in your arms. But I must return._

_My father was a businessman before my mother died. But one of his vessels carrying riches back from the East sank and with it, our fortune. We spent years in poverty before I was betrothed to someone. I need to go back, Cassian. Or else my family will starve again. It is unlikely that I will get another offer like this . . ._

_This . . . this doesn’t make anything we did less sincere, Cassian. I will always cherish what we had. Always. I’m just sorry we didn’t have more time together. And I’m sorry I never said what I needed to say. Not in person._

_I love you, Cassian. I do. I do._

_Nesta Archeron_

~*~

The photographs are burned.

All of them.


	2. london, 1940-1941

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclosure: I didn’t really research much into the specifics of these historical events, so forgive me for any inaccuracies. Especially the dinner part; I’m not totally sure it could have happened with rationing.
> 
> Also, the use of “livid” in this part means “blue-gray,” not “angry.” just thought i’d point that out since i shocked myself multiple times while proofreading this

**London, 1940-1941**

He’d never thought his home would be like this.

At first, Cassian had balked at the thought of staying in London. “I’m a photographer!” He’d complained to his boss. “And there’s a war going on! In France and Belgium and the Pacific, not in _London!”_

His boss had slammed down his hand on the desk, a cigar clenched between his pointer and middle finger. His other hand raised to point outside the window. “Do you see this, boy? You think the fucking Nazis are only in France, and Belgium, and the Pacific? No,” he said, the word punctuated with a sharp laugh. “They’re here too.”

He had been right.

Cassian watched as the twelfth stretcher was carried out of a demolished building. London had always been a stinking dump of a city, even at its most endearing times, but this was a new sort of torture for him. Even in the distance, buildings smoked and steamed. They’d started to call it the Blitz, short for _blitzkrieg_ —a term so German it was hard to blame people for shortening it.

He raised his camera to his eye, a deep sigh exhaling itself from his throat. Another day, another death, another job.

“Excuse me!”

A sharp voice alerted him to the presence of a woman standing in front of his camera, dressed in a white nurse’s outfit. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Uh—” he’d never been asked that question before. “I’m taking a photograph.”

The woman stalked closer, and although she was short enough to just come up to his chest, he watched as she tilted her head up. The radiance of her blue-gray eyes were blinding—and terrifying. “Have some respect,” she spat, poking her finger into his chest. “These are people being carried out on those stretchers. There’s a good chance that half of them won’t survive. Think of their families. Do you think they’d want some stranger taking unsolicited photos of them?”

“Well, miss, I’m a war photographer.” Even so, the word “war” tasted sour in his mouth.

The woman’s gaze didn’t soften. “Well, I’m sure there are better places for you to take photos. Not under my authority.” She waved a hand. “Get away from my scene.”

Cassian stood there, dumbfounded, as the woman stalked away, barking orders to other similarly clad young women.

Talking to her had been a different war altogether.

~*~

“She was a piece of work,” he grumbled into his mug of ale.

Rhysand lifted a groomed brow. “And you’re sure you were your regular charming self?”

Cassian snorted. “Very funny, Rhys.”

His best friend of some years held up his hands in defense. “Hey, you and I both know the ladies find you lacking sometimes.”

“Bastard.”

“You know it.”

But the laughter died to down as their eyes landed on the same spot. The very problem, since there shouldn’t have been a spot in the first place. It was Azriel’s absence that led to the heavy silence between the two men, the thought of their third—and likely best—brother in the middle of the battlefield, God knew where. Rhys had been exempt because he was a doctor-in-training, but Cassian knew that both of them would have signed up for the war in a heartbeat. Especially if it meant that they would see Azriel again.

It was Rhysand who cleared his throat. “So tell me more about today,” he said, leaning back in the booth, his head against the wall. Looking effortlessly ruffled.

“Aside from the crazy girl,” muttered Cassian, “nothing much.”

“Ah, so she was the highlight of your day, you could say.”

“No,” protested Cassian vehemently. “Absolutely not. She was the exact opposite of highlight. She was the . . . whatever they use to redact documents part of my day.”

“Well,” said Rhys, raising his glass. “I’ll cheers to that.”

~*~

Cassian pulled at his tie, the hot room making the tightness even more pronounced. “This is horseshit,” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

The editor-in-chief of the Daily Telegraph laughed, equally discreet. “It’s only two hours,” replied Helion, looking impeccable in a navy suit. “You can sit still.”

“What am I doing here?” Cassian watched as the restaurant began to fill with politicians and businessmen. “I’m a photographer from the streets, not a coiffed journalist or a politician.”

“The fact that you casually used the word ‘coiffed’ marks potential,” replied Helion easily. “And you’re here of your own accord, remember? Who begged me to sneak you into top secret meetings so you could rag on our government in person?”

“You should have stopped me.”

“Well, what can I say? I’m a man of little self control.” Replied Helion, with charm that spoke of a man Cassian’s own age and not someone old enough to be his father. “And you’re what, twenty? Twenty-five?”

“Twenty-three.”

“Ah! How can I say no to someone who’s living the golden years?” He laughed, slapping a hand on Cassian’s back. “This is your time to make mistakes, lad.”

Unfortunately, the dinner was as boring as Cassian had predicted.

After introductions by old men and businessmen who were clearly proud to just be there, they’d all sat down to eat a ten-course meal that left a sour taste in Cassian’s mouth; not only because the portion sizes were tiny, but also because of the constant reminder that luxuries like this existed. Just not for the common people. And certainly not for the men and women on the battlefield.

“Keep that grimace to yourself,” murmured Helion, a notepad open in his lap as he eyed the men sitting around the table. “You’ll scare them away.”

Scowling even more, Cassian let his eyes wander around the room. Indeed, the rest of the room was filled with the same privileged-looking British aristocrats, all quietly whispering over plates of five cubes of fish and four strings of spaghetti. But his eye caught on another unassuming couple in the corner.

In the dim light, the woman looked . . . certainly not softer, that wasn’t the word. The shadows danced around the peaks and curves of her face, shadowing it in blots of darkness and light. Her eyes were illuminated in the candlelight, as striking as ever. The expression on her face, however, was less than pleased.

“I’ll be back,” he said to Helion. What Cassian hadn’t noticed before he’d left was the man’s tracing of his line of sight, and its matched destination of the woman in the corner.

“No, you won’t,” called the journalist, smiling to himself, but Cassian was too far away to hear or see.

His palms began to sweat viciously as he approached the table. What would he say? It was clear that she was in the middle of some sort of meeting—a date? Well, if her face looked contorted like that, it couldn’t have been going too well. But why did he care, anyway?

“Hello,” he said brightly as he stood in front of the table, wedged between the woman and her date. “How are you?” Cassian asked her, a smirk playing on his lips; he couldn’t help it.

She blinked before gasping, “Oh, thank God you’re here, Anthony, you must have some news on Mama. Is she going to be all right? That was quite a fall she had, down all those stairs!”

Luckily for her, he was a quick learner. “Oh yes,” he replied, sneaking a glance at her date, who looked appropriately mystified. “What a fall. Well, she was stable after the surgery, but,” Cassian sighed, looking down at his hands. _I should have been an actor._

“But what?” She cried. They were really laying it on thick.

Cassian shook his head. “They’re not giving her much hope,” he sighed. “I think you need to come with me to the hospital. She’d want you there. In case she passes . . .”

She was already packed, her pocketbook slung over her shoulder. “I am so sorry,” she said to her date, who still looked confused by the whole ordeal. “I have to go.”

The cool, crisp November air hit his face as they stepped outside. The pair walked in silence down the street, neither of them knowing where to go.

Cassian broke the silence first. “That bad?”

It was cold enough that he could see the condensation of her breath in the air as she exhaled, a cloud disintegrating into the night. “You have no idea.”

“I didn’t get your name when we met.”

“You didn’t deserve it.”

“Oh,” Cassian laughed. “Is that it?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you so adamant that what I am doing is wrong? It’s my job.”

“Because it’s invasive,” she replied. “You’re taking photos of people without their consent.”

“And what about the pictures where I intend to take photos of just the rubble, but I accidentally capture people in the background?”

“Well, that’s not much better.”

“What do you propose? That I mark them out somehow?”

“I wouldn’t be against it.”

“All right,” he said, stopping to look at her. “I just want to know your name, mystery girl. We don’t need to be arguing about different aspects of my job.”

“Look,” she said, her arms folding across her chest. “I appreciate what you did for me back in the restaurant. But it doesn’t mean that you and I are—” she gestured futilely between them “—friends, or even acquaintances. I don’t owe you anything, and you don’t owe me anything.” She began to walk rapidly down the street once more.

“Me saving your ass back in the restaurant begs to differ.”

“Oh, really?” She laughed. The sound shot through Cassian’s bones, a lightning bolt of surprised comfort that he was not expecting. They rounded the corner. “Well, I would like to remind you that you came over of your own accord. And since when did interrupting someone’s date become ‘saving my ass?’”

“If we're going to keep meeting like this, I might as well know your name. So I can stop calling you ‘the woman’ in my head.”

She stopped abruptly. Shaking her head at him, she began to ascend the front steps of a block of flats. Cassian began to feel stupid as he realised he’d walked her to her building.

But the girl stopped, hand on the doorknob before turning around. The same bolt shot through Cassian again as he looked up at her. Watched the shadows of her apartment building creep up on her hair, softened by the glow of the moon. In the distance, a gust of wind picked up, ruffling the bottom of her skirt. He wished, he so desperately wished he had his camera, if only to take this one photograph.

“Good night, mister photographer,” she whispered before disappearing into her building.

~*~

The third time they met was a very different scene.

Cassian awoke to the sounds of thunderous cracking. He barely noted it at first, the assault on London over the past month dulling the urgency. And besides, he heard no sirens—

A rocking blast sent him flying across his tiny flat, crashing into the opposite wall. No, this wasn’t the shockwaves of a bombing across the city. It was happening in his own home.

Cassian struggled to stand, the blast leaving him dizzy. He propped a hand against the wall, his eyes aching. With a start, he realized that it was ash that obscured his vision, the dust from the blown-out brick of his flat. _I have to get out._

Blind, he made his way towards the door before realizing— _where’s my camera?_

It was a foolish thought. He could almost hear Azriel shrieking at him to forget the stupid camera, but he stubbornly felt around on the floor for it. Cassian breathed a sigh of relief as his fingers closed around it, throwing the neck strap on before continuing his escape. The hallways seemed to be still intact, and he broke out into a sprint. He didn’t know if the bombing would return, to his building, or—

A scream broke the tenuous silence, and Cassian froze.

It came from a floor above. With a blow to the chest, he remembered the little six-year-old girl that lived in the room above him. With her grandmother, who had often given him biscuits. He could see them both now, the girl with her still-chubby child face and her grandmother with her kind wrinkles.

He ran back upstairs without a second thought.

He passed rooms with their doors wide open, no sign of the people inside. Perhaps they had heard the sirens first—still only a dull beep in Cassian’s ringing ears. His legs ached, both from the effort of running after waking and from the shock. But he sprinted upwards, holding onto the banister as cracks in the stars began to form.

“Annie!” He shouted. “Mrs. Evans!”

Another scream from Annie sounded towards the end of the hallway. Cassian rushed forward. He forced the apartment door open, inhaling sharply. Rubble, both whole and broken, blocked his path. The Evanses’ table had been flipped over, as well as the tins of food that had been stacked on the countertop. Glass and porcelain, presumably from their cups and plates, littered the floor. Carefully, Cassian toed the sharp pieces away and tiptoed into the room. “Annie?”

“Mr. Cassian?” A whimper sounded towards the back. Cassian tossed aside a flipped couch to reveal the little girl and her grandmother, huddled in the corner. Tears made streaks in the girl’s ash-covered face. Her grandmother’s eyes were closed.

“Hello, Annie. We’re going to get out of here, all right?”

“Wait!” The little girl held onto Cassian’s arm. “My granny. She’s not—she’s not waking up!”

Cassian turned back, squatting in front of Mrs. Evans. Two fingers pressed to her carotid (thank God for Rhysand) confirmed a weak pulse. “All right, Annie, I’m going to carry your granny down the stairs, and you’ll follow me. Does that sound good?” Annie flinched as another boom rocked the building, but nodded.

Mrs. Evans was surprisingly heavy for a woman of her size and age. Cassian cursed himself for not exercising more often as he struggled down the stairs. Trying to ignore the dangerous creaking sounds. It reminded him of skating on thin ice on a lake and watching one wrong step crack and spiderweb all over the sheet.

“Mr. Cassian! The stairs are breaking!” Annie cried from behind him. His head whipped back, just in time to see the stair that the girl was standing on split in half. Annie screamed. Cassian thrust out his arm, shifting Mrs. Evans to the other arm so that he could tug Annie forward. “I’ve got you, Annie,” he grunted. “I’ve got you. But we can’t stay on the same stair, all right? We might be too heavy together.” He hesitated before telling her, “Don’t be scared. I think you should go first.”

Annie’s eyes went wide.

“We’ll be right behind you, all right? It’s just that you’re light, and quick. Lighter and quicker than your granny, right? You don’t need my help, you’ll be fantastic.” Cassian gave her an encouraging smile. “Besides, I have to stay back and help your granny.”

Annie bit her lips, but nodded. She took a tentative step on the stair below them. But a loud cracking noise alerted him to the crumbling of the wall where the banister was. It was spreading. _It was spreading._ Cassian could see the dent—and ultimate breaking—of the wall flashing before his eyes. “Annie, go!” He shouted. The girl obeyed, scampering down the stairs, Cassian not so far behind with Mrs. Evans on his back.

They burst out of the front door, both Cassian and Annie coughing as ash clouds greeted them. But in the distance, the sun was breaking over the skyline, closer to daylight than Cassian had thought. There were even nurses out and about, running around. That probably meant that bombing was over. His stomach, however, twisted as he saw a man with a bloodied face carried away on a stretcher.

“Excuse me,” he said, stepping in front of a nurse. “Can you please help—” his voice faltered as he saw who it was. Even after two months, her face was still engraved in his mind.

But the woman barely registered his words, her livid eyes going straight to Mrs. Evans, still limp on his back. “Stretcher, please!” She barked. “Put her here,” she told Cassian, who dumped the old woman as gently as he could onto the white cloth.

“Wait!” Protested Annie, scampering after her grandmother. “Please,” she begged, looking up at the nurse. “She’s my granny, I need to go with her!”

The woman paused for a moment, and Cassian thought she was about to disagree. “All right,” she said. “Both of you need to be checked for ash inhalation and other injuries, I suppose.”

~*~

“What happened?” She asked as she cleaned a gash on his forearm. Cassian hissed at the burn of the antiseptic.

After they’d come into the hospital, Helion had been waiting for them. “Your boss wants you to be on duty today,” he’d said, almost apologetically. Cassian had growled in annoyance before being ushered into an empty room by the nurse.

“Bomb. building. You know how it ends,” he muttered, holding back another wince.

“I would have never guessed a man such as yourself lives with a six-year-old and her grandmother.”

“I don’t.”

She raised her eyebrow as she worked to bandage another cut on his shoulder. “Then there’s more to the story.”

“They’re my neighbors. Upstairs.” Were they anymore? Could they be neighbors if they didn’t have a building to live in anymore? “I heard her scream as I was about to run out, so I went back for them.”

“That’s . . . heroic.”

Cassian shrugged, regretting it instantly as he knocked his shoulder injury into Nesta’s nail. “Ow! I mean . . . it was nothing.”

“I’d hardly call it nothing. There,” she declared. “You’re free to go.”

“Wait,” he called. She stopped before the exit of the hospital. “You think I’m a hero?”

“Marginally,” she replied, although something in her tone alerted him that perhaps that was not quite the case. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Since I was such a savior,” he said. Oh, he was about to regret this very much. “Can I _finally_ know your name?”

She turned fully back to stare at him, the pierce of her eyes boring into his very soul. He watched as they trailed up and down. Finally, she spoke. “You’ll want to put a shirt before you go out.”

Indeed, he looked down and realized for the first time that he hadn’t bothered to put on a shirt before he’d run out of his flat. “But can I know your name?”

She surprised him.

“It’s Nesta. Nesta Archeron.”

~*~

It turned out his adventures with Miss Nesta Archeron weren’t over yet.

They walked through the rubble, her shouting orders to the nurses, him taking photographs.

“Will you stop photographing everything you see?” She hissed, swatting down his camera.

“As I’ve said multiple times, _Nesta,_ it’s my job.”

“But what is there to photograph?” Her tone was almost desperate in its insistence. “It’s rubble. Rubble, rubble, rubble. Day after day.”

“You know what,” he said, changing the topic. “I don’t think I’ve properly introduced myself to you yet. I’m Cassian.” He felt like he was playing with fire as Nesta looked up at him, irate.

“All right, _Cassian,_ ” She challenged. He wanted to memorize the way his name spilled off of her tongue. “Tell me, what makes you interested in taking photos of a destroyed city apart from the fact that it’s your job?”

He shrugged. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” That clearly hadn’t been what she was expecting.

“No.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I wanted to go. Fight, I mean. My brother—” he faltered at the thought of Azriel “—is away. Fighting. I wanted to go along with him, be a real war photographer. Someone decided that I would be better suited to photograph the home front.”

Nesta was silent. They watched the other nurses and constables run around, attending to the broken buildings and people. “What do you see in photography?”

“Everything.” The word weighed on him.

She looked up at him. “In what way?”

“I see the rubble. I see the grayness of the buildings, the ash, the sky. I see the despair and the pain. But I also see the morale of our people. I see the sun breaking over St. Paul’s—” the image of Herbert Mason’s photograph flashed in his mind, the cathedral illuminated by fire and smoke “—and I see the guarantee of a new day, of a new hope. And I see your blue-gray eyes, and your honey wheat hair, and your white nurse’s uniform, and I feel as if I know you all the better because of it.”

She was silent after that, and Cassian had to keep himself from stumbling in the aftermath. Had he just said all of that? It had escaped out of nowhere. Finally, she said something that he never would have expected. The theme of their acquaintance, he supposed.

“Would you like to go eat lunch with me?”

~*~

Months passed, and—

Something was burning. Something was definitely burning.

“Oh God, oh God,” Cassian was muttering to himself, the exclamation becoming louder and more strained as it was repeated. “Oh God oh GOD OH GOD—”

“—Cassian, what are you _doing?”_

He swallowed as he turned to face Nesta, who was standing in the doorway with narrowed eyes. “Hello, sweetheart,” he said weakly. “How was your day?”

“What are you doing.”

“I’m uh—making dinner.”

She peered over the stove at the blackened mess of vegetables. “Doesn’t look like dinner.”

“I know,” he sighed. “It just . . . went wrong somewhere?”

“Cassian, you’re no good at cooking.”

“I know!”

“Then why did you—oh, forget it,” she said. It was good-natured. “I’ll make something else.”

“Can I help?”

“Not on the stovetop.”

“I’ll take it.”

In the end, they had two plates of pasta with tomatoes and garlic. Cassian lit a candle in the middle of the table as they took their seats across from each other. “Cheers,” Cassian offered as they clinked glasses of water.

They discussed Nesta’s increasing workpile at the hospital, and Cassian’s lightening one, as well as the politics in Britain. But in all of it, Cassian watched her. Watched as she opened her mouth to take a bite of pasta, or a sip of water. Watched as she offered him a small smile across the table. Watched as a small sound from outside caught her attention and—

Cassian fumbled for his camera, sitting near his foot. One snap, and that image—of Nesta’s head turned towards the window, the arch of her jawbone and clavicle exposed by the candlelight, the softening of her cheek because of the same effect—was saved forever.

“Did you just take a photograph of me?” Nesta laughed.

“Yes. Of course I did, how could I not? You’re . . . you’re flawless, Nesta.”

She shook her head at him. It wasn’t a negation. It was a slow, sweet movement. Nesta rose from her seat to move towards him, cupping his cheek in the palm of her hand.

“I love you,” he whispered against her lips, straining upwards. “I love you, Nesta Archeron.”

It was only when she was hoisted up, pressed against the wall, both of them fumbling for each other’s clothes and giggling that she replied. “I know.”

~*~

He was still struggling to process what had happened.

“Cassian,” Rhys was saying. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine. I’m sorry, did you say that you enlisted?”

Rhysand scratched at his head. “Yeah,” he said. The syllable falling from his mouth, more casual than “yes” and a thousand times more unsure. “I’m done with my education, and the office said that they need more medics, so . . .”

“And you want . . . you want me to join you?”

“Not just me.” Rhys’s tone was almost desperate. “Azriel, Cass. We’ve—we’ve always found our way back to each other no matter what—”

“—Rhys, we barely know where Az is.” Azriel’s last letter had been devoid of a location, although both he and Rhys were convinced that there were some clues that pointed to Eastern Europe. Tiny, tiny clues. “And you’re going to be a medic, there’s absolutely no guarantee that we’ll end up in the same platoon, or even _regiment—”_

“—but don’t you want to do more than stay in London, Cassian? You’re always going on about how you wish you could be in action, that you could be with our boys instead of staying at home.”

Cassian was silent.

Rhys sighed, more tired than disappointed. “Look. I leave in three days. I have a friend down at the office who owes me a favor. We would be in the same unit, for a while, at least. If you change your mind . . .” His brother stood, leaving a twenty pound note. “You know where to find me.”

Even before Rhysand left the pub, Cassian knew what his answer would be.

~*~

Cassian never thought he’d be the reason behind his seeing Nesta cry for the first time.

“Why?” She screamed. A pillow hit him as she chucked it across the room, face scarlet with tears. _“Why?”_

“Nesta—”

“—why would you do this to us?” She shouted, sinking to the floor, another pillow clutched to her chest. _“Why would you do this to us,”_ she sobbed.

Cassian approached her carefully. Her shoulders shook as she cried silently. “Sweetheart,” he murmured. “Love, I—” he struggled with his words. “My brother . . . brothers, now, I suppose . . . they’re both fighting. And I—I’ve never been separated from them like this. I need, I need to go. To play my part in this war.”

“You are playing a part in this war.” Her words were muffled by the pillow.  

He tucked Nesta into his chest, her tears soaking his shirt. Cassian rested his cheek on the top of her head. “But not big enough of a part. Not like you, you’re going out, helping people. But I’m . . . I’m just playing a part in the aftermath. I need to contribute. Contribute more.”

He felt her fist his shirt in her grip, and a tear slid down his own cheek as he considered the prospect of going away. Of being shipped off to another country. Of—

Nesta yanked him down, her hands roaming his face desperately as she kissed him. “Come back to me,” she whispered. “Let me come back to you.”

“Yes,” he murmured as she pressed her lips to his again. “Yes.”

“Make love to me, Cassian,” she pleaded, breaking away from him, her forehead resting against his. “Make love to me.”

~*~

He would remember that night.

The sight of Nesta in the low light, the shadows nestling in her curves and the light soaring above her skin. The desperation in her eyes—and his, he was sure—as he thrusted. The curve of her lips as she cried out in pleasure. The warmth of her skin against his afterwards, pressed into his arms.

They were his last thoughts, laying on the frozen, snow-covered forest ground somewhere in Belgium, with a photograph tucked into his coat pocket. A photograph. Of a girl seated at a dinner table. Face turned towards something offscreen, a candle illuminating the flicker of a smile that decorated her face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't really take all the credit for Nesta's "come back to me" lines because they're very much based on an excerpt from a letter the Welsh poet Dylan Thomas wrote to his wife in the late 1940s. 
> 
> Check out my Tumblr: [goldbooksblack](https://goldbooksblack.tumblr.com/) for more!  
> 


	3. rome, 1953

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Italian is courtesy exclusively of Reverso and various blogs. Feel free to voice any grievances about the inaccuracy.
> 
> This chapter in particular was inspired by a photoshoot Holliday Grainger did, which can be found [here](https://goldbooksblack.tumblr.com/post/172379846847/prettymysticfalls-you-know-ive-always-wanted).

It was hot as hell.

Nesta struggled to avoid wiping her brow—or her underarms, for that matter, decency be damned—despite the copious amounts of sweat beading on it. Beside her, Lucien also looked like he was dying of heat. “It’s fucking hot,” her co-star muttered.

“At least you get to parade around in your undershirt,” shot back Nesta. “I’m wearing this thing for the whole day.”

Lucien gave her a sincere look of pity. “Well, it’s just another . . .” he faltered as Nesta raised her eyebrow.

“What? Another ten hours, you mean?”

“Yeah. That.”

“Places!” Interrupted the director, a squat man with a receding hairline. “Nesta, the fifth step up. Lucien, at the foot.”

They were shooting on the Spanish Steps today, the sun beating down on them. Nesta stood still as the makeup team ran over, dusting her over with another layer of power. She resisted the urge to sneeze.

“And . . . action!”

Lucien ascended the steps. Well, they were no longer Lucien and Nesta; they were Antonio and Lucrezia, two star-crossed lovers.

“Lucrezia,” said Antonio, cupping her cheek. “My love, we will find a way to be together. I swear to you.”

“But Antonio!” Lucrezia cried. “My father—he would never approve.” She shook her head, shying away from his touch. “Perhaps we should give up.”

“No!” Antonio exclaimed. “Never say that, Lucrezia.” A finger under her chin brought her back to him. “As long as we are together, there is hope.” A kiss to her knuckles sealed his faith.

“Cut!” Screeched the director.

Nesta huffed discreetly. Lucien hid his agreeing look of disdain.

“All right, that was good, but the lighting isn’t quite right. Let’s move about an inch over and start again.”

“Lucrezia,” said Antonio, a hand coming up to cup her cheek. “My love—”

“—CUT!”

So it went, them shooting a scene and the director cutting as he pleased. It was past eight by the time that Nesta returned to her hotel room. “Cut, cut, cut my ass,” she snarled viciously as she tore off her starch-stiff dress and stepped into the shower. She closed her eyes as the hot water ran over her body, steam rising in the room.

A telephone ring cut the silence.

Nesta growled, shutting off the water with an aggressive slap, throwing on a robe before trailing a path of water out of the tub. The telephone was heavy in her hand. “Hello?”

“It’s me,” said Lucien on the other end.

She smirked. “Late night calls, Vanserra? Seems a little too Antonio for me.”

“Oh yes. Soon I’ll be serenading you on the Spanish Steps,” he said sarcastically. “I wanted to give you a warning.”

“For what?”

A sigh sounded. Nothing good had ever come out of a sigh. “Director just set up an interview slash photo shoot for us. Tomorrow morning.”

“Shit,” she swore. “Tomorrow?”

“At eight o’clock sharp.”

Nesta threaded an irked hand through her brown waves. “Fine.”

“I’ll see you at seven-thirty, then.” The line clicked as Lucien hung up.

Did they have to be such pain in the asses all the time? When she’d made the switch to acting, she hadn’t thought it would be this awful. She had thought it would be wake up, act, eat, and sleep. Rinse and repeat. She hadn’t factored in all of the extra press, the intrusions into her personal life, the fans that could be too much sometimes. Nesta crashed onto her bed with a sigh, not caring that her hair was still damp. God, this wasn’t even Hollywood. This was Italy—still in the black grip of the war, still recovering. It should have been far grimmer than America, but somehow—cruelly so—it was the same.

~*~

_“Come Lei divenne un’attrice?”_

Nesta resisted the urge to roll her eyes as the translator beside her whispered an incorrect form of what the interviewer had asked her. Only slightly wrong, but enough to make her already-irritated insides flame. “A casting agent just found me off of the street,” she said, giggling as an added dose of naiveté. “It was like Cinderella!”

She heard Lucien stifle a snort. She toed him in the leg with her pointy heels.

At any rate, the interviewer looked charmed, his next words a series of comments and questions.

Nesta’s blood boiled at the sound of them.

The translator leaned down. “He said—”

“—I know what he said.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the translator’s face become surprised.

Lucien still looked confused. “Nesta, what did he say?”

“You can tell him,” said Nesta, still grinding her teeth together in a smile, “that no, Mr. Vanserra and I have not ‘felt anything’ between us since we commenced filming, and that I kindly ask him to refrain from asking questions such as those.”

Thankfully, she heard the director bark her name from somewhere across the manor. Not stopping to see the translator’s reaction, she hopped off of her seat, bid a polite (perhaps too polite) farewell to the interviewer, and strode away.

They were doing publicity on a little villa, up near Florence. Nesta strode across the freshly mowed front yard, rounding the corner of the main house to the backyard. Tents had already been set up, people going in and out. With resignation, she offered herself up to the makeup team. Nesta closed her eyes as they dusted on powder and painted God knew what.

“You’re all ready!” Chirped the makeup artist.

“Thanks,” muttered Nesta, stepping out of the tent.

“Nesta! Over here!”

She nodded politely as she approached the director, feeling oddly like a dog. Bred to obey his every whim. He was standing next to a young man with a camera hanging around his neck.

He was dressed in a blue button down shirt and a white tank, with the buttons undone on the shirt. Dark pants and brown loafers completed the look, something Nesta was already dubbing “street rat chic.” But as her eyes were drawn upwards . . .

That face.

Oh God.

That face spelled out trouble for just about everyone involved.

Sharp cheekbones jutted out, then curved down into soft cheeks. Cheeks which were then juxtaposed by a jawline that looked like it was sharp enough to slice through granite. His lips were full, his nose looking as if someone had sculpted it. Irises only shade lighter than coffee sans milk completed the visage, somehow the most enchanting part of it. And yet there were imperfections: a faded scar slicing through his left eyebrow and another one parallel to his jawline. Similar injuries dotted the backs of his knuckles, something she noted when he fumbled with his camera.

“This is Cassian. He will be photographing you today.”

He shook her hand, his grip firm. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Archeron.” His English was accented, but somehow, that made it all the more enchanting.

“Likewise,” she replied, struggling to grin at the sight of the director clearly trying to hide a scowl. People like Cassian—publicity photographers, secretaries, assistants—they were supposed to work alongside the stars, not with them. That meant no banter, no personal contact, no casual lunches. But she supposed the director had invited it in the first place, by telling Nesta his name. “Where would you like me to stand?”

“Uh—” Cassian squinted past her, the sun in his eyes. “Could you stand back near the trees, please? The ones with the yellow flowers.”

“Of course.”

As she backed away, she saw the director lean closer to Cassian, his face screwed in displeasure as he no doubt told him off for daring to talk or touch her. Nesta let out a small personal laugh, although it was cut short when she considered it. The larger picture. She could vaguely see the director’s lips form the Italian for “do not touch her,” although it could have been bias on her part.

Nesta turned away from the scene. She hadn’t thought of anything like that in months, not since she’d started _Antonio and Lucrezia._ And in fact—

“Are you ready to start?” Cassian was at her shoulder. Albeit too many steps back to be casual.

She turned, pasting on her best smile. “Yes. I’m ready.”

“Great. Do you mind standing a little towards me? A little more. A little more—stop! Thank you. Now just smile.”

“Is there . . .” She felt stupid for even asking. “Is there a particular way you’d like me to smile?”

Cassian shook his head. A blush stained his cheeks. “Not at all. Do . . . do what feels natural.”

 _What feels natural._ God, even that had become such a foreign concept to her.

So Nesta stood against the trees, feeling the breeze ruffle her hair and skirt. Cassian raised the camera to his eye. A click sounded from his camera, and he directed her to the next still. “Tilt your body to the left, please. So that your profile is clear—yes!”

Nesta tried not to move as the wind beat against her back. She was facing the opposite direction. Bitterly, she wondered if she had misjudged Cassian, if he had gotten upset by the director’s words and decided to take a whole pile of unflattering pictures of her—

The wind picked up, and Nesta could bear it no longer. One hand reached down to tug her skirt lower, while the other went to her hair, smoothing back the flyaways—

_Click._

She whirled towards him, all wind forgotten. “Did you take a photo of me?” Nesta demanded.

There was nothing in Cassian’s expression. Not the fear or surprise that she was accustomed to on others’ faces when she had her infrequent blowouts. “Yes.”

She stalked towards him. He was much taller than her, but she’d learned since early youth that size had little bearing on soul. “Do not,” Nesta breathed, “publicize that photo.”

“Of course not!” Exclaimed the director.

Nesta ignored him.

“Why not?” He asked. They were so close that she could see the distinct separation between his dark irises and pupils. “It’s a lovely photo.”

A splutter came from the director, who opened his mouth to say something, probably a command—before Nesta shot him a death glare. “Not to me.”

There was a tense pause.

“Fine,” Cassian said, slinging his camera back over his neck. “It won’t be publicized.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“You have my word. I swear on my mother’s grave.”

“Good,” she said. Was all she said. Nesta stormed off in the opposite direction, ignoring the frantic calls of the director.

She walked past the makeup tent. Past the edge of the manor, past the interviewer’s station, and past the fountain in the front. She walked off of the villa, down the beaten dirt path, stopping only when she found a large rock on the border of the forest surrounding the location. Big enough for her to climb. Her heels nearly sent her flying as they slipped down the slope of the rock, but Nesta pressed on, dirt caking underneath her nails as she hauled herself to the top.

From here, she could see . . . nothing. Absolutely nothing. She couldn’t see the villa, or the rocky mountains or low plains that were scattered across the peninsula. All she could see were the trees and the dirt.

It felt like childhood.

Her nails dug into the ridges of the stone, grating against the rough surface. She had no reason to think of home. Even less to crave it. But what he’d said . . .

If she felt a kinship to every individual that had lost a mother, she’d be stuck in Hollywood all day. So what was it that made her stop and think? She’d been in the same room with James Dean and Rita Hayworth. One boy with the same issues shouldn’t have made her feel any different.

“Miss Archeron.”

“What do you want,” she snapped, not even bothering to look down at him.

To her surprise—and irritation—Cassian began to climb up on the rock next to her. Without the hindrance of heels, he was up there in mere seconds. She reflexively moved over, cursing herself once she realized. It was a silent invitation, and she loathed her subconscious.

“What do you want,” she repeated flatly as their eyes met.

“I just wanted to talk.” The sentence was accompanied by a shrug.

“Excuse me,” Nesta shot back. “I’m sure the director is looking for me.” She eased off of her seat on the rock, about to slide down the flat front when Cassian gripped her wrist. “Miss Archeron, wait.”

“Look,” she spat, turning back. “I don’t know who you think you are, but you can’t go around grabbing people left and right, and you certainly can’t go around grabbing people like me. I am a—I am—”

“—someone who’s also lost their mother?” Cassian completed softly.

Nesta froze.

“After a while, you start to see the similarities.” He released her wrist. “The jumpy reactions. The—”

“—I don’t want to know how you knew,” she interrupted. “I don’t care. I don’t care how you knew. Just—” she took a deep breath. “Just get out of my way.” Nesta slid down the rock, the stubbled surface scratching at her legs before she landed neatly on the dirt.

“I never really knew my mother.”

She stopped walking.

“She and my father had a brief relationship. He left before either of them knew she was pregnant. When I was seven, men showed up at our front door and took her away. I was left in the house, by myself. It wasn’t until a woman passing by noticed the dirty boy sitting in the middle of the street. She took me in, along with another boy. My brothers.”

Nesta couldn’t resist. “What happened to your mother?”

He leapt gracefully off of the rock, at her side in moments. “My father was a businessman. Rich. Successful.” A harsh laugh undermined the words. “Until he became cocky. Threatened the wrong group of people. So they went after my mother and I.” A silence fell between them as they trekked back up the dirt path. “They took her to service them until she died. Whoring for those pigs for the rest of her short life.”

“And . . . and your father?” Nesta swallowed at his words.

The young man shrugged, although she could sense the anger vibrating off of his body. “Untouched. Utterly untouched. They wanted to hurt him by going after his family; if anything, it only freed him.”

“I’m . . . I’m sorry to hear that.”

Cassian smoothed back his hair in a nonchalant gesture. “It is . . . in the past. Another part of my life.”

The winding path was longer than Nesta remembered. Without the desert winds of anger, it would take another twenty, thirty minutes to return to the villa. More than desirable for being in the company of a stranger.

“My mother died when I was eight,” she blurted out. God, _why did she say that?_

It was only when she saw the patient look on Cassian’s face—and the guilt of listening to his story and not recalling her own (he had set her up, the bastard)—that she continued. “I was—I am the oldest. Of three sisters. We grew up wealthy, on a large farm in the South. My father was a businessman dealing in antiques and jewels. But my mother . . . she contracted typhus.”

He walked silently beside her, waiting for her to go on.

“I think it’s better that she didn’t see what would happen,” Nesta gave a soft laugh that wouldn’t have fooled anyone. “We . . . it was the start of the war. My father had been shipping a whole boatload of treasures. Gold from Africa, paintings from Spain, porcelain from China. Then a German torpedo sunk it.

“My father had no money and none of the promised riches to give to his creditors. Our family had escaped the economic purge that haunted people in the 30s, but that turned out to be a lie. My father’s entire business was a house of cards.” Nesta rubbed at a non-existent stain on her sleeve. “It all came toppling down when an angry client sent his cronies to beat my father. They crippled him for the rest of his life. And with the money that we had to pay back, all of it went. The house, the servants, the furniture, the clothes—they only stopped asking for more when they realized that we had nothing left to give.

“My father couldn’t go off to war with his broken legs. It would have been much better if he had gone.” She was unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice. All twelve years of it.

“And why is that?” The dirt road had begun to curve as the villa came into sight.

It was Nesta’s turn to shrug. His shrugs had indicated a sense of letting go; hers did no such thing. “It would have been one less mouth to feed. He couldn’t work anywhere; not in the factories, not in the field. So we—” she cut off abruptly, the statement choking her. “My sisters worked. In the field. My youngest sister, she—she worked the most.” Could he hear it? Hear the shame, hear the pride, colliding into incoherence?

They were interrupted by the sight of the director scampering towards them.

“I suppose I should leave,” muttered Cassian. “It was nice talking to you . . . Nesta.”

She barely heard the director’s incessant chattering as she watched Cassian walk away.

_What the hell did I just do?_

~*~

“You’re in a terrible mood,” said Lucien conversationally.

She glared at him. “And you’d do well to remember it.”

“All right, all right, you evil stepmother of a person,” replied her co-star, rolling his eyes. “I’ll stay out of your way.”

“Thank you.”

“The director was goin’ nuts when you stormed off.” Lucien’s New York accent came out slightly, blending the words. “Thought you’d never come back. The both of us did.”

“Yeah, well, there’s not much of a movie without me, is there?” She said half-heartedly, more of a grumble than an attempt at humor or vanity.

Lucien gave her a sympathetic look and a pat on the back before they walked out into the bright Italian sun and took their places. Behind them, the Trevi Fountain gurgled, Oceanus witnessing their filming.

Nesta made it a grand total of three steps before she stopped, made a flimsy excuse to Lucien, and walked back to the umbrellaed shade. She stood there, back turned to the crew behind her. She would stay in the shade all day, even if—

“Nesta.”

She didn’t turn.

“Nesta, please—” there was a deep sigh. “I know that it is because of me that you are walking off. I do not know what I have done wrong, but—”

At this she whirled around. “You know nothing about who I am,” she seethed. “About what I’ve done and what I want. Do not pretend to be anything more than a bastard photographer who is overstepping his boundaries.”

There was a silence as Cassian regarded her. She swallowed as his eyes fixed on her face.

“Of course, Miss Archeron.”

~*~

She hadn’t had to deal with him for nearly a month.

He’d been assigned to the film as a still photographer, a decision that neither she nor the director were happy with. She, for obvious reasons. The director, because he viewed him as a liability. But filming went on, with only minute difficulties.

Until one day in the spring of 1953.

Nesta had hardly stepped onto the _Ponte Sant’Angelo—_ where they were filming that day—before the director came running up to her. His hand closed around her arm in a nervous gesture. She resisted the urge to bat it off. “There’s a little bit of um . . . a problem.”

“What kind of problem?” Nesta asked sharply.

“I . . . it’s not my fault!” He held up his hands defensively. “He wouldn’t come out of his room, he said he was so sick! He refused every single offer—”

“—who?”

The director sighed, a rare moment of deviation from his bumbling disposition. “Lucien.”’

She stared at him in blank shock. “What? We’re shooting the kissing scene today!”

“I know.”

“Do you have a plan?”

“We shoot the scene with a stand-in. As long as we find someone of a similar physique, nothing else matters; the colors won’t show up anyway.”

“And the scenes after that?” They’d shot the scenes out of order, leaving three months left to wrap up filming. Filming that required both stars.

He untangled himself from Nesta to rub at his balding head. “We’ll have to wait until Lucien is better, I suppose.”

“I can’t believe this.”

“The company is already breathing down my neck about this. We’ll shoot the scene today and then I’ll see what there is to be done about Lucien.”

“Wait,” she called, speeding up to walk alongside the director. “Did you find a stand-in yet?”

“Yes.”

She faltered as she caught sight of him. In Lucien’s clothes—a size too small—he looked much different. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Please.” He lowered his voice, the pair standing a mere ten yards away.

“Find someone else.” Her voice was flat.

“He is the only one who is anywhere close to Lucien’s build.”

“He’s a little over Lucien’s build, wouldn’t you say?”

“Nevertheless,” the director snapped, and Nesta had to admit that she listened more closely after it. “We need this scene to convince the studio we are not stopping completely because of Lucien.”

“Fine,” she growled. “One scene.”

“Thank you. Places, everyone! Nesta, at the end of the bridge. Cassian, a little to the left. Left. Left. Le—right there.”

As she was passing, Cassian grabbed her arm. “Miss Archeron—”

“—after the scene, please.” She barely spared him a look as she made her way to the opposite side.

The _Ponte Sant’Angelo,_ the Bridge of Angels. Nesta took time to briefly study each angel as she passed their perch on the supports of the bridge. Each one was beautiful, serene, and ethereal. As angels should have been. But upon further inspection, there was a hidden core to them. She documented the object in their hands as she passed: a whip, a crown of thorns, a lance.

The makeup team attacked her once she reached the end, smacking her with the powder puff and rouge on her lips and cheeks. She rubbed her sweaty palms on her dress, chastising her. Why did she have sweaty palms in the first place? Eventually, the powder predators left, and she was free to survey her surroundings.

The _Ponte Sant’Angelo,_ also known as the Kissing Bridge. It was why the writers and the director had decided to shoot here. She hated them for it, but she couldn’t deny that with the waves below them sitting languid (instead of lapping endlessly at the sand as it would have if they were at the beach), it was all rather attractive.

“Nesta, are you ready?” The director’s voice sounded from the opposite end.

“Yes,” she called back. Was she?

“Three . . . two . . . one . . . action!” He bellowed.

Nesta broke out into a sprint. As much of a sprint as she could manage in her stilettos. But she flew across the marble—

—and squarely into Cassian’s arms.

He caught her solidly, hands on her waist. She had all the lines in this scene; all he had to do was stand and watch. Nesta tried to ignore the camera peering over Cassian’s shoulder directly at her face as she placed a hand on his cheek. _You are not Nesta, you are Lucrezia, you are not Nesta—_

“My love,” Lucrezia whispered. “My love, I—” she looked down at her feet, thoughts racing through her head. “I’d thought—I’d feared—that he’d killed you.” Her other hand came up as well, cupping his face him her palms. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, I—”

Cassian kissed her.

And suddenly, she was Nesta Archeron again. She was Nesta Archeron, small-town girl turned worldwide actress, her arms around the neck of a random Italian man, movements a thousand times more intimate than if they’d been with Lucien. Cassian’s fingers threaded into her tight updo, loosening it. She tilted her head, deepening it even more, inhaling sharply.

“Cut,” the director said quietly, standing behind the camera peering over Cassian’s shoulder.

Nesta broke away with a gasp, her hands still poised on Cassian’s shoulders. The man looked dazed, his eyes still fixed on her. It took her minutes before she collected herself enough to tell the director a messy excuse and walk off.

~*~

“You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

Nesta snorted. “I don’t think I need you to tell me that.”

Cassian stuck his hands in his pockets. It was nearly pitch black in the Roman night, the time of day where the only people outside were drunkards and criminals. Nesta, in her simple but still wealthy-looking dress, was neither.

They walked in silence. Nesta’s heels clicked loudly against the cobbled streets, the sound bouncing off of the buildings adjacent.

“Why’d you do it?” She spoke first. The vulnerability apparent in the way she slipped back into her old Southern—or just plain American—habit of sliding one syllable against another, contracting needlessly. Whether he noticed it or not.

“Why did I do what?” In contrast, Cassian’s Italian accent underlined, not undermined the words.

“Take the scene.”

“Does there have to be a reason?”

“The director doesn’t pay substitutes. So yes, there has to be another reason.”

“I took it because I wanted to know more about a girl.”

She blinked. “No.”

His soft laugh echoed down the street. “Yes. That’s it.”

“Why?”

“Because you are . . .” he struggled to find the word. “Enchanting.”

“I was . . . rude to you.” Could he hear it? The ever-so-proud Nesta Archeron, admitting a fault? It wouldn’t have sounded like an apology to anyone else, but judging from the smile on his face, it was as good as one.

“Perhaps. But you also admitted things you were ready not to admit.”

“You tricked me,” she accused.

“I did no such thing, _cara,”_ he said, laughing fully. The sound reverberated, drawing the ire of several elderly Italians who stuck their heads out of their windows to glare. “You shared it of your own accord.”

“Still,” Nesta replied, like a petulant child.

“Well, then, I ask you this question with an option for you to decline.”

“Go ahead.”

“Why did you make such a fuss about the one photo I took of you that day, up at the villa?”

“I . . .” She went silent. “I haven’t taken a photo like that in years,” Nesta said finally.

“Like what?” Cassian’s face was soft. Open. Understanding. They’d stopped in _Piazza Navona,_ her back to the lights illuminating the _Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi._

“Like . . .” she wrung her hands. “I don’t know.” Her heart beat at her _get out of there get out of there_

A gentle hand grasped her wrist. “Like what?”

Her feet rooted in the cobbles, but her back stayed turned. “Like no one was looking at me. Like I could be . . . free.”

His voice came at a low whisper behind her. “I know.”

She turned, quizzical.

“Photography is . . . not what it used to be. Now it is all posed and purposeful, like—pictures of celebrities or movies. But before all this, there was raw emotion. A picture of a woman cradling a child in the ruins of a house sparks a million questions. _Are they mother and child? Was the house their home? Why did it crumble?_ A picture of a famous movie star, or a politician, is nothing. Everything is already known.” Cassian smiled, and she could see that it extended beyond their little bubble on the streets of Rome. “I photographed your co-star after you that day in the garden. We exchanged the same greetings that you and I did before I set up. He is a humorous man, a kind man, but I certainly didn’t learn that from photographing him. No, it was all afterwards.

“You . . . _you,_ that day in the garden, you were like that mother and child. I wanted . . . I wanted to know who you were, what you were feeling. I wanted to know you. I needed to know you.”

They stopped. “This is my hotel,” she said quietly.

Cassian blinked, the mere movement mesmerizing. “Oh. Then I suppose I will see you tomorrow, Miss Archeron.” He leaned down to kiss her on the cheek—

She turned just as he came down, her lips meeting his fully. It was Cassian’s turn to freeze—until his mouth pressed on hers, hard, a hand tangled in her hair deepening the kiss. She could feel the heat of his skin against hers, not against hers. Euphoria, panic, fear, all colliding into one in the pit of her stomach, in her heart, in her soul. Nesta moaned against his mouth, the vibrations shooting through both of them. His hand came down to bunch the material of her dress in his grip. She broke away, gasping.

“Call me Nesta,” she whispered softly before turning away.

~*~

“What are we doing here?” Her heels sunk into the soft grass of the villa. “And how the hell did you get permission to be here, anyway?”

“My brother is very well-connected,” Cassian replied, having trekked ahead. They had raced here after filming had wrapped for the day, Cassian talking animatedly about “not missing the sunset.”

“You’ve answered one of two questions,” she called.  

He turned, and she felt her chest flutter as he grinned at her. “We’re doing another photoshoot.”

“What? For what?”

“For you, _cara.”_

She followed him further into the garden, stopping before the same trees they’d photographed against last time. “You’re . . . redoing the publicity shots?”

“This time they’re personal. They’re for you, Nesta. I know how much you detested the other ones.”

“I don’t need them.”

“No,” he said patiently. “Then do it for me.”

“I don’t even know what to do!” She exclaimed.

“Be natural,” Cassian replied, soft. “Remember what I told you about photography.”

“I don’t want to be natural,” she protested. “I—Cassian—”

“—trust me.” His dark eyes fixed on her. “No one but us will see these photos.”

Nesta paused, trying to think of something to say—

_Click._

“There,” said Cassian softly. “There’s one.”

~*~

“How do you know Italian?”

Three months had elapsed. They were lying on his bed in his apartment, having had a rare day off from filming. Nesta turned to face him, her hand resting on her abdomen. “What d’you mean?” She asked, syllables stringing together in a lazy response.

Cassian blinked, his beautiful face contorting. “Was that even English?”

Nesta laughed, chucking one of his own pillows at him. “You first,” she insisted. “How do you know English?”

“My adopted family is British.”

She hummed, her interest piqued. “Did you grow up in England, then?”

“Most of the time. It was certainly safer, during the war. But I spent every summer here once the war ended. Never managed to shake the Italian accent, though.” He sat up, his hand reaching for hers. She watched as their fingers intertwined, a kiss pressed to her knuckles. “Now you.”

“I learned it young,” Nesta closed her eyes, letting the sunlight from a nearby window shine on her face. “Until we lost our money. I had lessons in just about everything: French, Italian, Latin, Greek, geography, history, mathematics.”

“Mmh,” Cassian hummed, his hands going to her waist. “You’re brilliant.”

“Am I?” She whispered as he moved her against him. On top of him.

He kissed her in response, the warmth exhilarating, a curious sensation in the Italian heat. She giggled as Cassian smoothed his fingers against her cheeks, the fluttering movement sending sparks across her skin. He sat up, hands sliding to her hips lips sliding to her neck. His fingers pulled at her buttons.

She froze.

Memories, unbidden, skimmed across the surface of her mind. Of a man when she’d been young, pushing her down on the ground. Her, escaping only by the skin of her teeth. Of another man, someone she’d trusted. Someone she’d given herself up to, only to lose everything. Of yet another man, the one who convinced her to give it all up.

“Cassian,” she breathed, her hands on his shoulders. “Please, I—please stop.”

He broke away, his brow already furrowing in concern. “Nesta?” He asked softly. “Nesta, are you—did I do—I’m sorry, I—”

“—no, no, it’s—it’s not you, I—” she took a breath. “I’m just . . . not ready.”

A gentle hand on her cheek brought her back to face him. “It’s all right,” he said. “I didn’t realize.”

She shook her head. “It’s not you. I just . . . I need time.”

“Of course.” He pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. “I . . . _ti amo,_ Nesta.”

Her heart raced at the words. “Cassian—”

“Shh,” he murmured, bringing her into his embrace. The pads of his fingers stroked her cheeks, brushing her tears away. “Whatever it is, _amore mio,_ you do not need to tell me now.”

~*~

She hadn’t told him.

She hadn’t told him when the director had announced the last day of filming.

She hadn’t told him when they’d gone out for dinner afterwards, him looking so beautiful in the low candlelight. She hadn’t told him when she’d watched the filming crew pack up their things, or when Lucien had pointed out that she looked unwell.

She hadn’t told him before she’d taken her last look of Italy and boarded the plane.

Nesta sat in her own curtained-off section of the jet, her breathing fast and uneven. Her chest felt tight, her throat congested as she let the tears pour silently over her cheeks.

She’d known it was all over when she couldn’t bring herself to be with him that day, in his bedroom.

Tomas Mandray had torn her innocence from her, her first had warped her womanhood, and her second had ruined her forever. It was man after man after man in her teens—her naive, stupid self, thinking that Hollywood would be a welcome change from the dirt fields of the American South.

It was excruciating to recount, to even think about—the way she’d cried after her first time, only consoled by the fact that he’d loved her. He’d been older than her—not by much, but by enough that it was she who was the interloper, not him. A newspaper had arrived in her lap two weeks later. A headline. His name and another woman’s. Not hers.

The second man had been different. He had been less forward, more soft-spoken. So she’d thrown herself into it, completely taken with him. She’d thrown away her life and her clothes to be with him, and in the end, he’d ruined her too. She’d been known as the “Harlot of Hollywood” in smaller newspapers until her studio had put an end to it. Early. It was the only reason why she still had a film career.

But him . . . God, she’d seen him just hours ago and she couldn’t even say his name. Nesta remembered kissing him on the cheek, promising to see him the next day. It was all a beautiful lie, that was what it had been. A beautiful lie.

But she knew. If there was one thing she had learned from this industry, it was that love had no place. Her contemporaries all had at least three divorces under their belts; were you really a star if you didn’t? She could see it now, if she’d stayed with Cassian. News would spread: _Nesta Archeron with mystery lover in Rome!_ Cassian would become gossip fodder.

She couldn’t let that happen.

No matter how much she loved him. No matter how much she was unable to say it.

So Nesta Archeron turned away from the sight of Italy in her passenger window, tears sliding down her cheeks as she made her decision. The right one, she reassured herself.

The right one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my Tumblr: [goldbooksblack](https://goldbooksblack.tumblr.com/) for more!  
> *I think that it's far more accurate to say that the Archerons would have been poor factory workers rather than poor farm workers, but I was so in love with the idea of Nesta being a Southern belle that I couldn't help myself.  
> \-------  
> Come Lei divenne un'attrice? _how did you become an actress?_  
>  Trevi Fountain _famous fountain in Rome_  
>  Ponte Sant'Angelo _famous bridge in Rome_  
>  Cara _dear_  
>  Piazza Navona _a square in Rome_  
>  Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi _famous fountain in Rome_


	4. berlin, 1961

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is probably my most historically dubious chapter to date. I tried to research as much as I could, but there will probably be errors. Let me know if I can fix anything.

**Berlin, 1961**

It was raining outside. 

Nesta Archeron told her boyfriend as much, but he only laughed. “So I’ll stay with you tonight,” he mumbled into her neck. 

She swatted at him. “You have work tomorrow.”

“So do you.”

The woman rolled her eyes. “It’s going to take you time to get across the city. Time that you squander every day by doing your hair.”

“My hair is one of my defining features, sweetheart.” Cassian lifted his head, grinning. “Look at that face, you agree, don’t you?” 

“Shut up,” she muttered, pushing her palm into his chest. “Fine. But you’re out of here by seven-twenty at the latest.”

“Okay,” he mumbled, and she let out an unwilling squeal as he pulled them both down, arms wrapped around Nesta’s waist. 

“I mean it!” She exclaimed, although the protest was lost in the feel of Cassian’s teeth on her collarbone, the pressure enough to make her moan.  _ “Cassian.” _

“Hmm?” He’d moved down to her chest now, still bare from their previous round. His tongue swirled around a peaked nipple. A soft gasp released from her throat, cut off by the replacement of his tongue with his teeth, nipping at her breast. A hand toyed with her other nipple, the other sliding down her waist, down her hip, to rest just above—

“Impatient, are we?” Cassian murmured, laughing lightly. Nesta whined as his hand pressed down on her hips, caging her in. Stopping her from moving his hand closer to where she wanted it. “We’ll get there in due time, swee—”

It was his turn to gasp as Nesta pushed him down on the bed, rising above him. Blissfully, beautifully naked. She watched as his eyes twinkled, taking in their fair share of her lush skin. She settled on his legs, a hand pressed against his abdomen. The muscles there tightened under her touch, and she smirked. 

Another touch to his cock had him nearly arching off the bed. “Nesta—”

“—shh,” she commanded as she slid off of his legs and laid flat on her stomach. 

Cassian watched with wide eyes as she took his cock in her mouth, and this time, he did rise off the bed, a low growl emanating from his throat. A hand to the back of her head had Nesta taking even more of him, his cock hitting the back of her throat. The other hand threaded into her hair. She moaned as his grip tightened. 

Nesta bobbed up and down, happy to finish him then and there. But a rough movement from Cassian had her on all fours, panting as she felt his hot breath between her legs. She cried out as he stroked a finger along her slit, stopping to position it on top of where she had been trying to move him earlier. “Raise a little for me, sweetheart.”

Her fingers fisted the bedsheets in her grip as he licked languidly at her, fucking her with his tongue. Cassian kept his finger on the spot at the top of her folds, rubbing and stroking until she was a keening mess under him, crying out for him. 

“Cassian,” she cried. “Cassian, I need you. Now.”

“Is that so,” he crooned, the vibrations of his words shooting through her. Nesta whimpered. 

Cassian had plunged into her in an instant, the sudden force and friction of it causing her to moan. She lowered her shoulders to the sheets, the angle of his cock hitting her in just the right place. A wanton mess under him. 

Her fingers clenched around the sheets as he pounded into her, a scream stifled by pressing her face into the mattress as he reached underneath her to stroke at her folds. It was then that Nesta was seized by climax, Cassian’s name coming out in short breaths and cries. He followed, crashing with her. 

They lay like that, him on top of her, the warmth reassuring them. 

“So,” he mumbled. “Tomorrow morning?”

~*~

“Were you really with him again?” 

Nesta shot a look at Elain, who was giggling as she ran a bench scraper along the edge of the white wedding cake she had in her hands. Nearby, Feyre listened in with barely concealed interest. 

“I don’t think I need to tell you—either of you—anything.” She said, keeping her tone neutral as she slid several autumn-themed desserts into the glass display case. The Archeron Bakery was one of the more popular in the city, and there were just ten minutes left before allowing the flood of customers to come in. Which made Elain and Feyre’s lollygagging all the more irritating. 

“So you  _ were  _ with him.” Feyre grinned like the annoying little sister she was. 

Nesta glared at her. “Feyre. Cupcakes. Now.”

Her sister rolled her eyes before hopping off her stool and moving to the back of the shop. It was really just Elain who had the eye and talent for true baking, but with their father’s health in steep decline, they’d all been forced to take all the jobs and money they could get. Nesta hefted a tray of cookies on her shoulder and tried not to think of Cassian—of his face, of his tanned muscle, of his co—

“Oh, God, are you thinking about him now?” A groan accompanied Feyre’s words. 

“Last time I checked the cupcakes weren’t here,” growled Nesta, although she was sure the burning blush on her face undermined her words. Elain broke out into hysterics next to her, shaking so much that she thought the Schmidts’ wedding cake would topple over into a frosted mess. The eldest sister threw down her mitts, exasperated. “You two are impossible.”

“We’ve barely seen him,” mused Feyre. “You should bring him over sometime.”

“He lives on the east side, it’s far,” replied Nesta smootly. She’d been preparing for this exact moment for months. “By the time he’s here and back, half the day would be over already.”

“Didn’t stop you from having him over last night!” Chortled Feyre. 

“Feyre, I am going to—hello, Mr. Schmidt, we’re just putting the finishing touches on your cake, would you like to see it?” Nesta bared her teeth in a charming smile as the groom-to-be came in, the silvery jingle interrupting her threat. She’d have to finish that later. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her sisters exchange an amused look. 

~*~

Feyre had been right. 

Cassian certainly did not live far enough for her not to see him.

Nesta ran a palm over her stomach, smoothing out the midnight blue fabric. It was about the millionth time that they were going to go out for dinner, but somehow, it seemed different every time. It made her nervous every time. She resisted the urge to tug on her coiffured hair in frustration. 

Pounding sounded at the door, and she threw it open to reveal Cassian, dressed simply in a cream button-down shirt and black pants. On anyone else, it would have looked lazy, especially compared to Nesta. On Cassian, it was perfect. Nesta laughed as he swept her up in his arms, twirling her around. “My queen,” he mumbled into her hair as he set her down. “My oh my, do you look beautiful.”

“Are those for me?” She asked, inclining her head towards the bouquet of lilies he had in his hand. She folded her arms around his neck, letting a stupid grin wash over her face. 

Cassian pressed his lips to her forehead. “Unless you can find a prettier girl for me to love. But that’s impossible.”

Nesta blushed, a deep red. “You’re such a flirt,” she muttered, pushing him away. He managed to smack a kiss on her cheek anyway, laying the bouquet down on her dining table. Arms wrapped around her waist as she tried to get away, squealing. Cassian captured her lips, the warmth of his chest pressed to her back. 

“Maybe we should just stay here,” he whispered, his cheek pressed to hers. 

“No!” She protested, although her movements to unbind herself were only half-hearted. “We have reservations, Cassian!” 

“All right, all right,” he laughed, letting her go. Nesta slipped her coat on as they stepped out of her apartment building, hand in hand. 

The streets of Berlin were illuminated by light-up signs that spelled out the names of various restaurants and shops, curly letters shining endearingly. Nesta curled into Cassian, the night a little too cool for her taste. It had rained earlier in the day, the smell of petrichor still strong in the air. Alongside them, people of all ages and fashions hurried along; some old, some young, some dressed in crisp business attire, others dressed in looser, more casual shirts and dresses. 

It hadn’t always been like this. Nesta had only been eight when the war had ended, but that had been old enough. It had been their first year without the guidance of her mother, the first year they could return to Berlin. She had remembered the ruins of the buildings she had grown up amongst; the bricks smashed into tiny pieces littering the street—or was it ground, seeing as the streets were all gone?—debris wherever they walked. The years after saw them struggling; her father had been helpless as always, so the Archeron sisters had scrambled for jobs wherever they could find them; as maids, as factory workers, even as a one-time model in Nesta’s case. It was the first and last time she would put her body on display. 

“Are you okay?” Cassian murmured, drawing her close. She hadn’t realized she’d stiffened until Cassian gently shook his hand from her iron grip. 

“Yeah,” she muttered back, dismissive. “I’m fine.” Nesta avoided his analyzing look.

Cassian only knew the bare bones of the story. That a childhood acquaintance who worked for a large fashion magazine had offered her money to pose. That she’d taken the offer, desperate for money but also attracted to a man who had status and money, especially in the post-war environment. That she’d walked away afraid and unable to part with the memory of how close she’d been. That giving herself completely to Cassian was the most important decision she’d ever made. 

“Let me know if you want to tell me.” It was spoken softly, as if it was just the two of them on the street and not the whole nightlife of the city. Nesta nodded, swallowing discreetly.

He held the door out for her like a gentleman, performing an exaggerated bow that had her slapping at his arm, if only to stop people from staring at them. “Miss Archeron.”

The dinner was beautiful, candlelit with the soft sounds of a live pianist in the background. But as she stared at Cassian, laughing across the table, she thought that perhaps she didn’t need the candles and piano after all. 

~*~

“When did you take this?” She demanded, although her snuggled position against Cassian was at odds with her tone. Nesta held up a photo of herself, just one among the pile of photos that Cassian had brought. All, all but this one were of mediocre things: a collapsed building, a sewer issue, a line of shops. Hallmarks of Cassian’s job as a newspaper photographer. 

But this one . . . 

Her back was bare as she lay chest down underneath a blanket. She was asleep, the lines of her face invisible.

It was as vulnerable as Nesta had ever seen herself. 

Her boyfriend looked over her shoulder. “Uh . . . the other night.”

Her face reddened at the thought of the other night. “Cassian, I didn’t—I—” she struggled to articulate her feelings. “Oh, never mind.” Nesta wrenched herself out of his grasp, snatching a book from her table. “I’m going to bed.”

“Nesta, wait.” Cassian’s grip was firm around her wrist. “Nesta, please. What is it?”

“It’s nothing,” she said brusquely. “Come to bed when you’re ready.”

“Nesta, please.”

“Let go of me.”

“Nesta—”

_ “—let go of me!” _

She didn’t realize she was crying until Cassian reached out a hand to brush at a tear that had strayed down her cheek. Nesta glared at him through the haze, as stubborn as always. He drew her into his arms as much as she was willing, a hand on her cheek and another on her waist. 

“Is this about . . . him?” She wasn’t sure if it was hesitation or anger that underlined his words. 

Nesta didn’t respond. But she supposed Cassian saw something in her eyes, because he lowered his gaze. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t think, I—I’m sorry.” The absence of his touch was freezing. Nesta watched as he picked up the photo again—a lighter hefted in the other hand. A flame sparked to life.\

But before the flickering tips of the citrine wave could even touch the corner of the photo, Nesta cried out. 

“Stop,” she breathed. “Cassian, stop!”

He froze at the sound of her words, the flame whispering out. But neither of them moved. Not as Nesta stared at the photo clutched between his fingers, not as he looked at her, pain and hope and longing all mixing together in the air between them. 

It was she who moved first, tears forcing their way down her cheeks, fingers pulling him down roughly to her. She wanted to consume him, to press them so close together that they melded into one. Cassian didn’t protest. She was hefted into his arms, back pressing against the wall as he kissed and sucked and thrust into her. Her nails dug into his scalp, his back, her head tipping back. Tears rubbed into Cassian’s skin as she kissed him, wetness sliding between them as she moved against him desperately. 

It was only after they’d made their way to bed—her head resting against Cassian’s bare chest, her fingers tracing mindless patterns into his skin, his lips pressing soft kisses into her hair—that she spoke. That, in a broken voice, she confessed. 

“It’s about him.” 

Cassian held her closer. Nesta felt her face heating up, tears congregating underneath her eyes and cheekbones, threatening to spill over at any second. He drew the blankets up higher, and she insistently burrowed deeper against his chest. As if such a thing were possible. “I trusted him, and I—” 

It could have been much, much worse. She had been besotted with Tomas. Mindlessly besotted. He could have talked her into stripping naked and she would have agreed.

It had been her dumb luck that he had been too impatient for it. That he’d thrown himself at her, still clothed. That he’d needed to try and tear them off before he could do anything. That it had given her time to escape. 

It had been her dumb luck.

“I let him take pictures of me,” she whispered. She felt his arms tighten around her. 

“Did—did he—” Cassian was so fraught with rage that he was unable to finish the sentence. 

“No,” Nesta murmured, with a soft kiss to Cassian’s chest for emphasis. “It didn’t . . . I didn’t . . . go that far.” She was shaking; she could see it in the blurred stillness of her hand. “But I . . . Cassian, I . . . I’ve never . . . I’ve never let anyone photograph me since.” The Archerons were comfortable, but just that. And they had no need for a camera, anyway. Elain had her flowers. Feyre created her own art. Nesta’s rent kept thoughts of such a luxury far from her mind. 

“I understand,” he whispered, the syllables soft against her hair. “I’m so, so sorry, sweetheart. I—”

“—but I want you to keep the photo.”

Although she was too buried in Cassian’s chest to see his expression, she could imagine him blinking in confusion. “Sweetheart?”

Nesta looked up at him now, taking in his handsome features, marked with only soft contemplation. “I want you to keep it,” she repeated softly. “Toma—he—ruined photography for me. I didn’t—I refused you for so long because I didn’t want to be with—near your camera.” She remembered the weeks and months that Cassian had come into the bakery, charisma on full display, and the weeks and months that she had flat-out denied him. The feeling of her heart racing every time she saw the camera hanging around his neck. Nesta laughed nervously, tears clogging the sound. “As stupid as that sounds.”

“No, Nesta.” The words were punctuated by a chaste kiss to her lips, the sweetest thing she’d felt all night. It chased away the ice in her mind, the fear in her heart. It was only warmth, only that cliche “l” word that filled her soul now. “I would be honored,” he said roughly. “To keep your photograph.”

“I don’t want to let him rule my life anymore,” she mumbled into his skin. 

“He doesn’t,” Cassian said simply. “He doesn’t.”

She’d thought the same thing to herself, many times.

But tonight, she believed it.

~*~

It was like a nightmare.

Except it wasn’t. 

Because it was real.

Of course she’d known—did anyone not know?—about the tightening border. About how the East had started to put restrictions and barriers in the city. About the people fleeing that side of the city, the sudden cramped conditions in the West. 

It was what she’d dreaded. 

Later she’d hear the name  _ Stacheldrahtsonntag.  _ Barbed Wire Sunday. 

Nesta had woken up to the sounds of commotion on the streets below her. She’d pushed open her curtains, fully bent on telling the pedestrians to get the hell out. Until she realized that they had nowhere to go. 

Her apartment had been perhaps a block, two blocks away from the border. 

It was now directly in front of the border. 

The East Germans had completely demolished the buildings in front of her. Leaving her with a front-seat view to the barbed wire that now greeted her at the foot of her building. Nesta had run out of her apartment, hardly bothering to change into proper clothes before bursting out onto the street, joining the throng of people standing in front of the wire. Just staring. 

She hadn’t cared about these people. Hadn’t cared about the businessmen who had been staring in avid interest, hadn’t cared about the little children who had been frowning, hadn’t even cared about the men and women crying. For whatever reason. All she had heard, roaring in her mind, over and over again, had been a name. 

_ Cassian. _

_ Cassian. _

_ Cassian. _

Nesta stood on the street for hours. Staring out at the demolished land, the sight so familiar, so reminiscent of torn-up Germany after the war that it sickened her. She walked from end to end, as far as she could go. 

She saw many people, spilling out of the woodwork of the city, some greeted by relieved-looking friends and family, some simply blind with freedom. People who had woken up and seen their last chance to leave.

None of them were him. 

“He’s smart, Nesta,” Elain said softly, coming up to put a gentle hand on her shoulder. Feyre stood a few feet behind her, the proximity speaking of tentative reassurance. “He’ll find a way out.”

Nesta nodded, the movement stiff and numb to her. God, how many nights ago had they been tangled together? How many nights ago had she cried into his chest, told him her darkest secret, her deepest fear? How many nights ago had she let go of herself, of her pain —

Just to have it back. 

She stopped hoping four days later, when the first brick was laid down. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my Tumblr: [goldbooksblack](https://goldbooksblack.tumblr.com/) for more!  
> 


	5. new york city, 2018

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS THE LONGEST FUCKING CHAPTER I’VE EVER WRITTEN A;LKSDJFADSKL
> 
> So this is . . . the end. We’ve followed these two idiots through forty years of history, and their story ends in present-day New York City (because you know I had to throw it back to my hometown(-ish)). Thank you all so much for your support as I was writing this. My gratitude cannot be expressed in words. I’m just so happy to have people who are reading and reviewing my work. 
> 
> Disclaimer: (since i’m dumb and don’t understand lawyer-ing) Nesta is a bit of a jack-of-all-trades in this chapter, whereas real lawyers never delve that deep into multiple areas at once. Plus, I don’t think Cassian would really need a lawyer, but . . . you’ll see what I mean. (The challenge to their relationship, however, is very real (although not as severe in NY)). 
> 
> Plus, halfway through writing this I decided to read the Addicted series (and became obsessed ohmylord) so if Nesta seems a little too much like Rose Calloway, that’s on me.
> 
> And yes, this is following a very La La Land-esque timeline.

**** **New York City, 2018**

**_kismet_ **

_ˈkizmit,-ˌmet/_

_noun_

_destiny; fate._

_Autumn_

Bryant Park was a picture of sunny spring-green grass in the midst of the gold and red leaves swirling around the rest of the city. People rushed by on Sixth Avenue, some decked in scarves and long pants, some still dressed in tank tops and shorts as if savoring the last breath of summer. Midtown Manhattan was undergoing its annual metamorphosis from the sweltering summers where not even the bosky shade of Central Park was endurable to the sweet autumn crispness, almost like the crunch of teeth sinking into an apple.

Cassian sat on one of the emerald chairs in the park with his camera sat on the matching circular table, watching a group of septuagenarians play bocce. He, too, had fallen prey to the city’s fickle clothing policy; wearing only a one-layer button-down and slacks, the sixty degree weather blowing through him. But it was nice to slow down, to relax in the middle of the city that never slept, never halted. New Yorkers were restless at heart, determined to move no matter what. Cassian saw it every day, from Rhys and Az, from Feyre as well, although she wasn’t a native of the city. But he took it slower.

He fiddled with the buttons on his camera, the parts clicking softly. It wasn’t unusual for him not to have any work—any conventional work—but he had been restless as of late. That old New Yorker spirit rushing back into his blood. Photography was still an unforgiving industry, with artists left behind in the dust and dirt while others were plucked out of nowhere into golden fame. Even he, a photographer with almost a decade under his belt, photos featured on the New York Times website, and exhibitions all over Europe, felt the harsh sting of rejection all too frequently. Cassian knew Rhys’s offer of a spot in his company was still available; and with his degrees in business and economics, he wouldn’t look out of place. But his life had changed the first day he’d held a camera in his hands. It had been kismet, the very definition of the word.

So he turned the job down when Rhys asked him—not often, but frequently enough that he knew his brother was worried about him.

Cassian was the most free-spirited out of all of his brothers; Rhysand was tethered to his own idea of home, the domestic way he looked at Feyre. Azriel was bound by duty and loyalty. Half to Rhys, half to Mor, and none to himself.

A soft _ding_ from his phone snapped him back to reality.

_Rhys: You coming to dinner tonight? Az is cooking._

_No,_ he texted back. _I’ve got an exhibit tonight._ Just the thought of it made him roll his eyes; it was a perfunctory exhibition, an event that Amren had pushed him to put on. “It’ll be good for publicity,” the agent had said, looking more like Edna Mode each day as she scowled at him. “Do it, you bat,” she’d snapped as she’d caught sight of his frown.

_Rhys: Let me know if you want us to save some for you._

_No, it’ll be okay. I’ll see you soon._

~*~

It was just as torturous as he had predicted.

The room was filled—or, more accurately, occupied by thirty people—with people he had no interest in rubbing elbows with. The likes of businessmen who earned double the amount Rhys did, and socialites who were more interested in how art looked rather than how it was supposed to make you feel.

Although it seemed as if a lot of people these days shared the same belief.

“This is terrible,” he said out of the corner of his mouth to Amren after a woman swathed in (real) gold sauntered off.

“Keep that to yourself,” muttered Amren. “At the end of the day, these are the people that are going to be buying your work. So keep going around and make some small talk, for God’s sake.” She eyed him. “You’re moderately attractive.”

“Gee, thanks.” On any other day, he would have made a joke out of it, but he was hardly in a joking mood tonight. Hanging around soul-sucking money monsters tended to do that to a person. “I’ll be . . . mingling now, I guess.”

Cassian flagged down a waiter, snatching two flutes of champagne. If he was going to stay here all night, he would stay here all night drunk. But before he could work up his cocky confidence, his gaze landed on something.

Someone, rather.

She was standing in front of a print he’d titled _Light Dance._

It was of a ballerina from the Met, the shadow of her figure against the stage light cast in black and white. Audience members were half-standing, half-sitting, faint in the gray overlap. The ballerina’s face was just out of sight; her head was titled, but not quite enough. Not quite enough to unravel the whole mystery. It had been one of Cassian’s first pieces, back when he hadn’t had access to places like the Met and had been forced to sneak backstage. He hadn’t thought of it as a particularly triumphant moment, not when he had been escorted out by security.

But the way she looked at the print was enough to make him silently thank his past self for being such an idiot.

“You like it?”

_Dammit, that was too eager._

He saw her eyes flit momentarily to him. “It’s fine, I suppose.”

“What do you think the photographer could fix about it?” Cassian asked, playing along. Praying that she didn’t know whom she was talking to.

“I don’t know,” she replied flatly. Her clutch slapped against her thigh as her arm dropped to her side. “Excuse me, I have to leave.” Heels clicked against the hard floor, her pace as fast as prey escaping from predator. She was within reach of the door in mere moments.

“Wait!” The word was out of his mouth before he could react. He cursed himself. If he hadn’t seemed too eager before, he surely did now.

The woman halted.

She didn’t even give him the pleasure of seeing her full face, turning only slightly. “Yes?”

It wasn’t that she talked like she was from the eighteenth century. It wasn’t that she was dressed—overdressed—in a sapphire blue dress with lace sleeves running up her arms. It wasn’t even that the expression on even just half of her face looked like it could slice him in two.

No, it was a different feeling—a feeling so distant and yet so familiar that it cut him in two, no assistance necessary.

It was as if he knew her without knowing her. As if he didn’t have to see the rest of her because he simply _knew_ her, as if he didn’t have to hear any more words roll off of her tongue because he simply _knew_ them already, as if . . . as if he _knew_ her already.

“Is there something you’d like to say to me?” Her tone was cutting.

“I—” Cassian fell mute.

She shook her head in frustration and turned away.

Cassian watched as she walked away, past the photographs and out the door.

Backlit by the exhibit lights all the way, as if she had been the ballerina herself.

~*~

“Hey man,” Rhys slapped him on the back as he stepped over the threshold. “Beer?” He asked, beckoning him into the kitchen.

“Please,” replied Cassian, not even bothering to keep the desperation out of his voice. He looked around. Not much had changed since Feyre had moved in; Rhys’s eye had been attuned enough to interior design even without her. But it was the little details; the framed photograph on the sofa-side table, the sketchbook on the dining table, the paint brushes drying near the sink that made it clear that his brother was in a relationship. That the man he had known for nearly his whole life was changing. And that Cassian couldn’t be happier for him.

He accepted the Heineken from his brother, leaning against the refrigerator. He could hear Mor’s boisterous laughter from the living room.

“Long night?”

Cassian side-eyed the clock hanging on the wall. 12:20 AM. He let out a loud exhale. “That doesn’t begin to cover it.”

Rhys smiled at him sympathetically. “Well, at least tomorrow’s the weekend, right?”

“I guess.” Cassian took a swig of his beer. “You’re going out of town tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah. Feyre’s been wanting to go see the lighthouse out east for a while, thought we’d finally go.”

“Right.” He was silent after that, and he knew that Rhys noticed it. It was uncharacteristic of him. He and his brothers had long ago begun to recognize each other’s uncharacteristics, impossible to hide from one another.

“Cass, you okay?”

He ran a hand through his long waves, his leather band lost somewhere on the Q train. Maybe it was the time, or perhaps the beer thinking for him—the self-doubt cropping up in his mind for the first time in a bit. He opened his mouth—

“Yeah. Of course. Why, are you getting scared again, mother hen?”

Rhys rolled his eyes. “Well, then—”

“—hi Cassian.” Feyre popped her head around the corner of the kitchen wall, smiling. “You want some pie? It’s on the coffee table.”

“Of course. Unless that asshole ate all of it,” he raised his voice, knowing his brother would hear. Rhys smirked into his beer. Sure enough, Azriel came strolling back, dumping a slice of pie onto the kitchen island.

“That’s for you, _asshole,”_ replied his brother, folding his arms.

Cassian sunk his fork into the still-warm crust, spearing a piece and raising it into the air. “Cheers,” he declared. “To Azriel and his baking skills.”

He didn’t need anything. Not if he had pie and his family.

Nothing at all.

~*~

“I don’t understand why we’re here,” muttered Cassian for the thousandth time that afternoon. The sleek halls of Smith & Thompson LLP were cold, unsettling, and filled to the brim with black and white art. To reflect the true personalities of the lawyers that worked there, he supposed.

Amren peered up at him as they walked. “We’re here to meet with someone who’s going to be your personal lawyer.”

“What? Amren, what the hell do you mean, _personal lawyer?”_

“What does it sound like, Tassos?”

“Okay,” he sighed. “Fine. I guess the question is, why do I need a personal lawyer?”

“Because you’re starting to get more high-profile clients, and they don’t exactly want to deal with a twenty-nine-year-old who walks around shirtless half the time.”

“But that’s what I have you for, isn’t it? Dealing with my clients?”

Amren halted in the middle of the hallway, a scowl sharpening her features. “No, Tassos, that is not what I’m here for. I am here as a favor to Rhysand and because you have zero wit for business.” The agent plopped her bag on the reception counter, barely tall enough to see over the top. “Appointment for Amren Wang, two o’clock.”

The receptionist looked terrified by Amren’s fiery eyes. “Uh—yes, yes, Miss Wang, I—”

Amren glared.

The receptionist gulped. “Take a left at the first junction, first door on the right.”

The agent bared her teeth in a poor facsimile of a smile. “Thank you.” She snatched her bag back up and hurried off down the hallway. Cassian lagged behind. Amren yanked on the doorknob, the door creaking open.

“I don’t care what the hell he said. That case took five months. He can’t just declare a mistrial.” A pause. “Well, I don’t care what the DA said! I’ll talk to him myself if that’s what it takes—”

Cassian caught sight of the speaker. The same posture, the same aura rolling off of her. Except now she had donned a formal dress and a blazer, and her face— _God, those eyes_ —was on full display. He could see the angles of her cheeks, her jaw, the plumpness of her rouged lips.

She was half-standing, half-sitting at her desk, phone clutched so tightly in her grip that Cassian thought it might explode. Her expression was that of pure, controlled rage. Framed diplomas from Yale hung on the wall behind her.

Amren knocked on the door. “Hello, Nesta.”

Nesta looked up, eyes flitting from Amren to Cassian. “I have to go,” she said into the receiver. “No, you listen to me—”

“Wait,” Cassian whispered. “Nesta? As in—”

“—Feyre and Elain’s sister, yes. Meet the last Archeron sister.”

The phone slammed down onto the cradle. Cassian couldn’t help but stare as Nesta Archeron made her way out from behind her desk, a manicured hand coming up to brush her hair out of her face. Sapphire pumps clicked on the granite floor as she walked over. “Amren,” she said warmly, grasping the agent’s hand in hers. “It’s nice to see you.”

“Nesta.” Amren inclined her head. “This is my client, Cassian. The photographer?”

Nesta looked at him finally. Recognition lit up her eyes. “Hello.” Her handshake was stiff, her tone cold.

“Have we met?” Asked Cassian, feigning confusion.

“No, I don’t think so,” replied Nesta. It was a pointed dismissal of the topic. She turned back to Amren, who was studying her blood red manicure with great interest. “Take a seat. What is this about again?”

“Mr. Tassos here has attracted a number of clients, most of which are extremely wealthy. And as you know, the wealthier they are—”

“—the more paranoid they are.” Nesta leaned back in her chair. A pen tapped against the glass desk as it rose and fell from between her fingers. “Amren, I don’t do general practice.”

“No,” said the agent, leaning forward. A particular sort of challenge rose in her eyes. “But I’d rather go to you than to someone who’s going to bitch and whine about dealing art.”

Nesta’s eyes flitted to his, and he wondered exactly what was running through her head. “And how do you know I won’t bitch and whine about this? I have more important cases to focus on, Amren—”

“—and you’ve also taken on a case involving the Vanserra’s estate. Which can be accomplished by a first-year employee.” Amren stroked a finger along the leather of her purse, a small smirk surfacing on her face. “Word gets around, Nesta.”

Nesta looked like she was ready to explode. “That’s confidential information, Amren.”

“Then you should manage your lawyers better. People talk.”

Cassian might have been the largest in the room, but against these two women, he was nothing. Absolutely nothing as he glanced between the two of them, eyes drying out from the constant side-to-side. The air had turned frigid from the two women’s stares, neither one willing to let go. Amren looked smug. Nesta looked furious.

“Fine,” Nesta spat finally. The pen clattered onto her desk. She made no move to get it.  “I’ll take it.” She turned the full force of her stormy gaze on Cassian. He shot back one of his cocky grins, although he himself knew it was to prevent himself from caving in.

She looked less than pleased.

He hardly paid attention as Amren rattled off transactions that he was (apparently) part of, with interjections from Nesta. The lawyer’s face was neutral and almost cold as she responded to questions and commented on the state of things.

“I think that you two should meet,” said Amren. “Perhaps next week. To discuss matters.”

“Why?” Nesta’s tone was sharp. “There’s no need.”

“Ah, but I believe there is.” Amren was already making a move to get up. “Become more familiar with each other.” She waved a hand when Nesta opened her mouth, presumably to object. “We’ll send you a date.”

“I can’t wait,” cut in Cassian. He winked at Nesta.

Nesta looked liable to bite his head off.

They left her like that, half-standing and fuming, the precise way they’d met her.

~*~

A week came and went, and Nesta was hoping that they had forgotten about it all. She had blocked the incident out of her mind, focusing instead on her other responsibilities—her _actual_ cases. So what, the Vanserra Estate could be taken care of in two days? It didn’t matter. It was a case, and she did not let cases slip out of her grasp once offered.

A visit from Feyre, however, put the event squarely back into her mind.

Feyre sat across from her, stirring a spoon into a cup of English breakfast tea. The two of them had never been on particularly good terms, but after a . . . reconciliation of sorts two springs ago, it had become much better. Nesta would have never voiced it, but something inside her ached to familiarize herself with the woman sitting across from her again.

Again.

If she could utter such a word, if she could claim to have ever known her.

What had changed her? Was it the way her sister had been sucked into the whirlpool of New York high society by her insidious first boyfriend? Was it the phantom touch of Tomas, whose scars she still bore? Was it the death of Cecil Archeron, their worthless sack of a father—who should have died a long time ago—was that what did it?

Perhaps it was none of those.

Perhaps it was all of those.

“I heard you finally met Cassian.” Feyre’s eyes, a shade darker than Nesta’s, finally lifted to meet her sister’s. Her tone was cautious.

“Yes.” It was a short reply.

Feyre gave a small smile. A nervous twitch. “How did you like him?”

“I didn’t.” Nesta took a sip of her still-scalding coffee, trying not to cough too much as it burned down her throat.

“Did you find him more or less tolerable than Rhys?”

Oh, that was a good question. Nesta certainly disliked (she had come a long way from despised) Feyre’s boyfriend. She had refused to meet him for months after Feyre had broken the news. Very much unlike Elain, who had jumped at the chance to integrate herself back into Feyre’s life. But Cassian . . . “Less. _Much_ less.”

Her sister tilted her head. “Interesting.”

Nesta snorted. “Hardly. You know the only one of you I can halfway tolerate is Azriel.”

“That’s because Azriel doesn’t talk to you.”

“Exactly.”

“Come on, Nesta, I met Rhys and everyone two years ago. It’s about time you met Cassian.”

“No thanks,” she replied, setting down her latte. “I would have liked to live a life in which I never met him, thank you very much.”

Feyre rolled her eyes. “He couldn’t have been that bad. What made you hate him so much? It was a ten-minute conversation, to hear Amren tell it, in which he said a grand total of three words to you.”

_What made you hate him so much?_

It was as if Nesta was back in the gallery, staring at the photograph of the ballerina. Head up, legs poised, arms aloft. She could barely recall why she had been so captivated by it; God knew Nesta had no capacity for dance.

But for that one exquisite moment she had felt vulnerable. In a way that she had not felt before. Her arms had relaxed at her side, she’d let her head drop and her back relax. She’d stood before it. Bared herself before it.

And when he’d interrupted, she’d unwittingly bared herself before him.

Did he remember it? Obviously he did. He’d asked her if she recognized him. _Liar,_ his eyes accused when she’d replied no. _Liar._

“He’s ridiculous,” Nesta opted for as a reply. “Feyre, he behaves like an eight-year-old.”

Her youngest sister let out a small laugh, the expression brightening her face. “Yeah, I guess he does.” Feyre sighed. “Just—give him a chance, Nesta.”

At this point, it felt like she’d given him much more than a chance.

~*~

He was late.

Cassian rushed up the dirt-stained, gum-stuck stairs leading out of the subway station. The fresh air—fresher than the subway air but still smoggy enough to give him cancer in the next ten years, he should say—hit him in the face as his feet landed solidly on the pavement. He dodged the first person he saw, a zealot delivering a religious speech, not bothering to shoot an apologetic glance. The café where he was supposed to meet Nesta was a short ten-minute walk away, although walking against the current of people on their lunch break was slowing him down. Cassian was exhausted with the effort of squeezing past everyone when the café finally came into view.

He pushed open the door, the air conditioning rushing at him. Bypassing the line, he headed straight for the back. Nesta was sitting at a table pushed to the wall, a latte placed in front of her.

“You’re late,” she said tersely, without looking up from her phone. “Have a seat.”

“So what are we doing?” The words were out of his mouth before he could comprehend how idiotic he sounded. He should have known what they were meeting for. It was his business, after all.

Nesta raised an eyebrow, the judgement in her eyes deepening. “We are here to discuss the matter of your sale to a Mr—” a file materialized into her hands “—Douglas Mitchell.”

“Right.” Cassian was looking for something, anything that would tear him away from her striking gray gaze. And something that would give him an excuse to see it again. “Is this about . . . the gallery from two weeks ago?”

“Yes.” Her eyes scanned the documents. “It seems like he took a particular liking to one set of photos, but he’s looking for them to be of a specific material. He’s requesting that you authenticate when and where you took them, along with what you used to print them.”

“Right.”

“You’ve done this before?”

“Believe it or not, sweetheart, I’ve sold a few paintings in my career.”

_“Don’t_ call me sweetheart.” There it was, that excuse. Her eyes reminded him of when he’d been caught in Central Park during a storm, the vibrant greens going to deadly grays in a matter of moments.

Cassian flashed her a grin. She replied with a cold sneer. “Is that it? He wants an authentication? Did he discuss a price?”

“Eighty dollar per photo. Three hundred and twenty for the whole set.”

“No.”

Nesta growled in frustration. “What do you mean, no?”

Cassian wished he had bought a drink so that he could fidget with it. He settled for tracing the flower carvings on the table instead. “Mitchell is a regular customer, and he would never go as low as eighty per photo.”

“Fine. How much do you want for them?”

“A hundred and ten each, four hundred forty total. Ninety-five is the lowest I’m willing to go.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Nesta snapped. “One ten each? That’s an inflation of a hundred and forty percent. How would you ever think that he would agree—”

“—because he will. With a little persuasion, he most certainly will.” Cassian tilted his head at Nesta’s expression of pure rage. “Look, I know Mitchell. He’ll bend.”

Nesta leaned back in her seat, arms folded. “And if he doesn’t?”

“I’ll give you twenty dollars.”

She raised an eyebrow before sighing. Cassian restrained a grin. “And if he does?”

“You’ll owe me twenty dollars.”

“Fine,” she hissed. “But this isn’t going to work.” Cassian watched as her eyes darted to her Anne Klein watch. “I have to go,” she muttered, snatching up the documents and her phone.

“Twenty dollars!” He called after her. “Twenty dollars, Archeron.”

~*~

He found the note slid underneath his door the following Tuesday, a twenty-dollar bill taped to it.

_He bent._

~*~

_Winter_

“How come I’m just meeting you?”

It had been his turn to choose the location, and that bastard had made her come all the way downtown. On the other hand, he was paying, which sweetened the experience somewhat. Frugality stayed with you for the rest of your life, no take-backs.

She raised an eyebrow as she looked over the latest deal. Cassian was doing better for himself than she had initially thought. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s hardly our first meeting.” It wasn’t. Negotiation after negotiation had dragged on from their first meeting in September. It was now the start of December, winter beginning to settle over the city like a thick blanket. Snow had yet to fall, but she dreaded it—the thought of running to work in her five-inch heels through mountains of dirt-brown and piss-yellow snow.

“No, I mean—I’ve known Feyre for more than two years now. I’ve known Elain for almost as long. How come I’ve just met you this year?” Cassian’s camera rested on the top of the table, accompanied by his hand next to it.

“Because I don’t feel the need to interfere in my sisters’ lives?” Nesta replied, her eyes still scanning the document.

“I don’t think that’s it.” There was a pause. Nesta didn’t dare look up, her heart leaping into her throat. “I think it’s because you’re scared.”

The file closed and landed on the table with a hard slam. Heat rushed through her as anger mounted inside. “We are not _friends,”_ she hissed, teeth gritted. “We are not _acquaintances,_ we are not _anything_ that gives you the right to talk to me about your assumptions on my life. Whether you like it or not, Cassian, we are attorney and client, and _nothing_ more.” She swept up her belongings from the table before storming out. “I’ll email you the details.” Her tone was flat.

Louboutins slammed onto the concrete harder than they usually did, her coat flapping in the wind. She hadn’t gotten a chance to tie it closed, but that was fine. Anger kept her warm. Heat rose in her cheeks as she replayed his words. Anodyne at face value, at the very least invasive underneath. How dare he? Nesta never let herself doubt her actions; she would admit wrong when hell froze over.

“Nesta, wait!”

She walked faster. Men and women who caught sight of her furious expression tripped

into the middle of the road trying to get away from her. It seemed that New Yorkers were only bothered by two things: Republicans and Nesta Archeron.

“Nesta!” The warmth of his hand settled on her arm, and she yanked it away. Nesta opted to spin around, wanting to deal with this before he did something idiotic, like get hit by a taxi while running across an intersection to chase her. She refused to meet his eyes. It wasn’t submissive by any means. It was defiance in every sense of the word, refusing to give him her attention.

“Cassian,” she snarled. It came out closer to a plea, and she chastised herself for the slip. “I have places to be.”

“Look, I—I’m sorry.” Nesta froze. Cassian kept talking. “I shouldn’t have pressured you to say anything—I was just curious. I’m sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable—”

“—why are you apologizing?”

There was a pause. “Because I feel bad. I trespassed on your privacy.”

It was a special talent of Nesta’s to make people feel like less than her. She had worn it with pride during college, spitting at classmates and professors. And they could call her a bitch all they wanted—it certainly came off that way—but it came from a place of deeper hatred, deeper fear. Of being away from round-the-clock penny-pinching for the first time in years, stepping onto the campus as an eighteen-year-old and realizing how truly fucked she was. To be standing next to people who had bought their way in without thinking. To be standing next to people who would always one-up her, no matter how hard she tried. Nesta didn’t have the money, didn’t have the resources to do what they could do: start businesses at nineteen and pole vault to the top of the Fortune 500 within six years.

So she’d wrapped herself in barbed wire. Shot words out at people without second thoughts. If she had to be a bitch, she’d be the best one there was. She’d be better than her Prada-wearing classmates, her sons- and daughters-of-CEOs rivals, her elitist professors. And she had been. All one needed to do was look at the framed Yale JD on her wall. For years, she’d been the best. For years.

But.

But.

_But._

The way Cassian looked at her now, those stupid fucking apologies swirling in his eyes, it makes her doubt it. Doubt it all. And that goddamn word— _sorry_ —

It was a word she didn’t deserve. Never in her twenty-seven years. But it was happening.

Nesta didn’t realize she was licking her lips anxiously Much less the fact that she was standing in the middle of Canal Street on a busy Monday afternoon. People were jostling her, shooting her dirty looks. And yet her stormy eyes were still fixed on Cassian’s amber ones, unmoving. There was no hint of emotion on his face beyond the ones he’d had when he’d apologized.

And she realized that neither of them would back down.

So Nesta Archeron swallowed the hard lump in her throat and croaked, “It’s my fault.”

That seemed to shake Cassian out of their stupor. He led her under the scaffolding of a nearby building, not touching her. “Nesta, I was the one who brought up your personal life. I shouldn’t have.”

“No,” Nesta heard a weary laugh fall from her lips. She rubbed at her eyes, not out of sorrow but tiredness. That was all she felt. Exhaustion. “I shouldn’t have . . .” Fuck, this was hard. “I shouldn’t have cut you off like that. I just don’t want to talk about family.”

Cassian nodded, his eyes soft. “I understand.” He tapped his heart. “I promise.”

Promises. She would have scoffed at the word at eighteen, hair tied in a messy bun, poring over law textbooks, trying to ignore the girls having a sleepovers that she was not invited to.

Nesta at twenty-seven only approached it with caution.

~*~

His couch was messy. He was sure of it.

Even though he had already texted both of his brothers with pictures of it. Even though they had replied back that he was being paranoid. Even though he had already straightened it a million types. Almost non-hyperbolically.

But Nesta Archeron deserved perfection. Shit, she _was_ perfection. From her polished black heels to her slick ponytail, she was a hurricane.

It was unlike him to be . . . whatever this was. Cassian had more than a few ex-girlfriends under his belt. Even more one-night stands. More than Rhys, maybe more than Azriel, although he didn’t know (the mysterious bastard never shared anything with them). But no one had pushed him to extremes like straightening his perpetually in-disarray couch. Not ever. Certainly not someone he didn’t see as a romantic possibility.

Briefly, he wondered if Nesta went through the same process he did. Perhaps straightening her hair for the thousandth time, or checking her watch over and over. Smoothing out her skirt, making sure there were no stray wrinkles. Clicking her phone on and off, a nervous tic for notifications.

But then again, she could be perfectly composed. Cassian raked a hand through his hair. Was it only him that was overly concerned?

The doorbell rang.

Cassian nearly tripped over his own feet as he ran to open the door. He halted in front of it, two steps shy, his left hand trailing down his body to iron out any imperfections. The other hand yanked the door open.

The tips of Nesta Archeron’s heels skimmed the threshold, waiting to be invited in. She was wearing a long gray coat. Her form-fitting dress, hugging her calves, was visible underneath the unfastened layer, navy blue framed with white lines curving up her hips. It was a disastrous choice for mid-January, although Cassian would have never voiced the thought; Nesta’s reddened cheeks were proof enough.

“Come in, come in,” Cassian beckoned hastily. Nesta stepped stiffly into his apartment.

It was large for the city, with a rent that usually drove other people to negatives in their bank account. The walls were cream-colored, decorated with photographs in black and white. Charcoal couches were arranged in a U-formation on a fuzzy beige rug that Mor liked to rub her feet on (even if it gave her rug burns half the time). Built-in ceiling light bulbs illuminated the space, casting a harsh white glow. He stayed near the door as Nesta took a few more steps, her astute eyes landing on the kitchen island and the shiny appliances behind it.

He wiped his slick palms on the rough material of his jeans, wishing that it hadn’t been a weekday so that Nesta wouldn’t have outdressed him by so much. “You seem to like ogling my kitchen appliances too much.” The words slipped out in a casual tone. Not shaky. Thank God.

Nesta turned the full heat of her glare on him. He grinned. Scowling, she stormed out from behind his breakfast bar and gestured to an armchair. “May I?”

“Of course.” He took a seat across from her. Files seemed to materialize in her hand, spread across her legs in seconds. “So, Nesta, any changes?”

“Jonathan Peters wants to reconsider his deal with you.”

“Fuck,” he muttered. “The lily photograph?”

“Yes.”

Cassian pinched the bridge of his nose. Well, his Friday night had suddenly become much less relaxing. “What’s the price change?”

“A deduction of thirty percent.”

“Thirty percent?” Cassian let out a harsh laugh. Economics major as he might have been, knowing better as he should have been, he had been relying on the lily photograph— _Lily on the Surface of a Lake_ (not his best title)—to tide him over for the month. Maybe the entire quarter. Thirty percent shaved off the top—no, _beheaded_ off of the top—was not good.

“It’s a lot,” Nesta admitted. “But don’t you have other photos to fall back on?”

Cassian stayed silent.

Her gray eyes cut into him, as if seeing beyond the stifled air.

No words were needed to push him to talk. “No,” he admitted. “I don’t. I . . . I usually travel once every quarter to photograph, but . . .” He took a tentative look at her.

Nesta tapped her knee with a ballpoint pen. “Attorney-client confidentiality, Cassian. Nothing you say to me travels outside this room. Whether you decide to tell me or not.”

A labored sigh escaped from his mouth. He sat up straight, palms raw from nervous rubbing against his jeans. “Rhys has been in trouble. Financially, I mean.”

She nodded. “Hybern Co.?”

“Yeah.” He was hardly surprised she had heard of it. It had been covered in all of the newspapers, confronting Cassian every time he walked down the street. Hybern Co. had been set on merging with Velaris Co. The tension had existed even before Rhys’s father’s death, years ago. Recently, Hybern’s CEO had ambushed Rhys, dangling a contract between them. Rhys had adamantly refused. Hybern had retaliated by launching attacks, buying clients out from underneath Rhys, luring employees away. All of it had made his family jumpy.

Cassian hadn’t felt right taking off on an impromptu flight to Singapore to photograph some trees. Not when his brother was being crushed right in front of him.

Nesta didn’t ask any follow-up questions when Cassian’s words died away. Instead, she shifted the papers off of her lap and onto the coffee table, propping her elbow on her knee and resting her cheek on her palm. “We can think of another way.”

He couldn’t help the upwards twitch of his lips. “We?”

She straightened, her scowl returning. “Yes, Cassian. We. Whether you like it or not, if you sink, I sink.” Nesta shot him a look. “We’re on the wrong side of symbiosis that way.”

“Ah, but you’re the lawyer. _You’re_ the parasite, not me.”

“I refute that,” she said smoothly. “There are no benefits to me keeping you as a client. You reap all the benefits by having me as your lawyer. Ergo, you’re the parasite.”

“Ah, but sweetheart . . .”

A large shared bowl of pasta, three beers, and two glasses of wine later, the question of who was the parasite still hung in the air, along with what to do about Cassian’s lost income.

Nesta’s laptop was open on the breakfast bar, her elbows propped up on either side of it.

Cassian took another swig of beer. “Have we tried cajoling yet?”

She held up a notepad, neat handwriting etched into the page. “It’s already on the list.”

He groaned. “This is bullsh—” Cassian stopped.

There was a flicker of a smile on Nesta Archeron’s face. Of course, it might have been the time (which was edging closer to midnight), or the still half-full wine glass in her hands, but he didn’t care. Did it really matter? His eyes were still tracing her lips, lost in a daze when she snapped, “What?”

“Oh, nothing. It’s just that this seems like it’s not going anywhere. Peters has teams of lawyers on his side, ones that will talk for him. If he wants a thirty percent deduction, he’ll get the thirty percent deduction. Plus, I don’t remember him signing any sort of contract. So I’m on the lower end of the seesaw here.”

“Then maybe you should start focusing on your personal finances.” It wasn’t the first time she had said it.

“I know,” he murmured. “I just—” his amber eyes met hers “I thought I left it all behind in college, you know? The economics lectures, the business classes, the cubicle job future?” Cassian let out a remorseless laugh. “It all comes back to bite you in the ass in the end.”

Nesta was surprisingly silent, no cutting remark to be heard. Instead, she straightened, placing her hands flat on the surface of the bar. “I’ll talk to Peters. See what I can do. But—” She hesitated. “Cassian—”

God, he wanted to memorize the way his name fell from his lips. Like honey, smooth and undisturbed, interrupted only by the sharp hiss of the double s. Sharpened by the rasp of her voice, as if she was fighting a war against the word that she refused to lose.

He almost missed what she was saying. “—Economics isn’t just a college major. It’s a lifestyle. And honestly?” Her gray eyes were steely. But not unkind. She gestured to his apartment. “You could be doing a lot worse for yourself. Fix your finances, and I’ll sort this thing out with Peters.” Nesta checked her watch, her hands falling at her sides. “It’s—um, it’s getting late.”

Cassian recollected himself. “Right. I—uh—”

“Can I help you clean up?” The dinner table off to the side was still littered with used utensils and bowls.

“No, that’s okay. You should be getting home, I’m sure you’re busy.”

“I am.”

“Do—do you want me to call an Uber for you?”

“No, I’ve got the app. I can do it.” She paused. “Actually, it’s arriving in two minutes.” Nesta began to gather her belongings, slipping her arms into her coat.

“I’ll walk you down.” Cassian grabbed a jacket and his keys.

Nesta opened her mouth as if to protest, then closed it. The door to Cassian’s apartment shut gently behind them. They were silent as they walked to the elevator. Silent on the elevator ride down. Silent as they stood on the curb, waiting for the car.

It was only until the black Honda finally pulled up and Nesta had stiffly folded herself onto a seat that Cassian moved. He placed a hand on the roof of the car, bending down so that he could look at her. Her stormy eyes were bright even in the dimness of the car, staring back at him with more fire than his amber eyes could ever muster. More than anyone’s eyes could ever muster. “I . . . thank you for tonight,” he said softly.

Nesta opened her mouth. Then closed it. Then opened—

“Sorry, but if you two are going to keep jabbering on, you might as well wait for the next car,” the driver said irritably, a New York accent dragging out the vowels. Ah, he loved New York hospitality.

“Sorry,” Cassian muttered. He closed the car door, stepping back onto the curb. Watching the car drive away.

It was only until he was back in his apartment, cleaning up the pasta bowls and wine glass that the question occurred to him.

_Did we just go on a date?_

~*~

_Did we just go on a date?_

The thought plagued her days later.

It hadn’t been a date. Surely, it hadn’t been a date.

Papers clicked against the glass desk as Nesta straightened them, her mind still straying. She hadn’t been on a date in months. Years. Not since—no.

His name would not taint her thoughts tonight.

Outside her office, the shadowy figure of the night janitor wheeled his bucket of soapy water across the floor, the mop dragging alongside it. Nesta rubbed at her eyes. It was nearly ten, her co-workers long gone. Gone to God knew where, down to the bars, to the movies, or simply home. Home. It was a word that Nesta still didn’t associate with the city, even after living there for years. A stifled palm to her forehead soothed her headache as she looked around her office. She had only been at Smith & Thompson for three years, by far one of the youngest employees in their history to receive an office of their own.

Nesta’s goals coming out of Yale had been simple: New York City. Law firm. Partner. She was two-thirds of the way there, and she wanted it. She wanted the glitz, the glamor, and the respect. The money didn’t hurt, either.

She wanted it, and she didn’t care who she trampled on her way to the top.

This was what was going to get her that position. Staying late. Taking on more cases. Proving to her bosses that she was more than a face. That she deserved just as much as them. If not more.

Her sapphire nails caught the light as she curved her fingers around her third cup of coffee.

And if the path to the top was paved with some of her blood as well, then so be it.

No one would stand in her way. Not her co-workers, not her bosses, and certainly _not her clients._

~*~

_Spring_

It was a stupid fucking mistake.

Cassian ran his fingers through his hair for the millionth time that night, the still-frigid March air raising goosebumps on his arm. How, how could he have been so idiotic? Twenty-nine years in the city, and he still didn’t know how to keep track of his belongings.

Right now, some lucky thirteen-year-old was probably enjoying his lost wallet in the middle of Times Square. It was only at the turnstile at the subway station that Cassian had felt the dawning panic of patting his pockets and feeling nothing in them. He was outside again, standing in front of an H&M, watching people walk by. Wondering what the hell he should do. He could walk to Rhys’s or Azriel’s; but both of his brothers lived on the Upper side. Too far for a walk, especially so late at night. Elain’s apartment was close by—no, she was out of town. So that left . . .

No. She’d never forgive him. Not if he showed up unannounced, with no plans whatsoever. But Nesta was the only alternative to spending the night outside like a hobo. He took a measured breath. Cassian had never been to Nesta’s apartment, the address locked somewhere in the back of his mind. If he remembered correctly, it was less than a half hour away.

His feet made the decision before his mind did, and before he knew it, he was well on his way into the belly of the beast.

~*~

Nesta ran a finger along her papers, half paying attention to them and half paying attention to an episode of _The Crown_ playing on her laptop. A glass of wine was balanced carefully on her knee. She had taken on nearly half of all of the new cases her firm had been handed, ranging from M &A to simple settlements. There were some family law cases that had been thrown in the mix as well, forcing her to rack her brain for law classes that had been taught years and years ago.

Her caffeine intake had increased sharply in the past few months, and if she hadn’t already drunk a cup of coffee with dinner, she would be downing straight espresso shots instead of wine. Nesta rubbed at her eyes. It was getting late. She had already stayed at the office as long as she could before the janitor shooed her out. Perhaps it really was time to—

Nesta jumped as the intercom buzzed, her wine nearly spilling onto her pristine documents. Scowling, half out of panicked relief and half out of annoyance, she stormed over to her door. “Yes?”

The concierge’s voice crackled. “Ms. Archeron, there’s a man here to see you.”

She frowned. “I’m not expecting anyone tonight, Mr. Jones.”

“Says his name’s—what’s your name again?—Cassian Tassos.”

Nesta froze. What the hell—? She cast a glance over her apartment. Her laptop was still blaring with some disagreement between Elizabeth and Philip, her papers scattered all over her couch. They had nothing planned for tonight. Her apartment was a mess. Not to mention that Cassian was a cocky asshole who she wanted to defenestrate every time she saw him.

“Did he give a reason for his visit?”

There was a static silence on the other end before Mr. Jones reported, “He seems to have lost his wallet and his keys.”

Nesta stifled a sigh. Not willing to let Cassian hear her trepidation. “Fine,” she snapped. “Send him up.”

As soon as her finger left the button, she froze. In absolute horror.

What had she done?

_Now is not the time to lose focus,_ she chided herself. Shaking her head, she smoothed down her hair. Oh God. She had yet to take a shower, and he would see her greasy—no. _No, Nesta, no. Get it together._

She slammed down the laptop screen in a manner not befitting royalty, downing the last of her wine as she swept up papers underneath her arm. This was still her apartment, and damned if she’d let some man intimidate her into alienating herself. Nesta slipped her arms through a wheat-colored cardigan, covering the more revealing navy tank top underneath. Well, at least she was wearing a bra. She tied her hair back into a sleek ponytail and looked at herself in the mirror. Acceptable. She couldn’t see beyond that word, but she knew she’d met it. She was acceptable.

And Cassian really didn’t deserve much more than acceptable, did he?

Nesta allowed her lips to curve slightly upwards as she smoothed down the front of her clothes. She’d argued in court against asshole judges and juries. She’d bulldozed people on the stand. She’d done it all—and she could do this.

The doorbell rang just as a thought popped into her mind.

_Makeup._

Oh God, oh God. Her eyes darted from the bathroom to the door. Did she have time? Of course, she didn’t need it, but she never went out without swiping on flame red lipstick, or dark eyeliner. It was just as much of a part of her as it accentuated her confidence. And with goddamn Cassian Tassos standing on the other side of her door, she needed confidence desperately. Or did she? Or—

Nesta stood in the middle of her apartment for God knew how long, debating herself until her brain shut down. Her arms hung by her sides, slaves to her bursting mind. There had been no second ring of the doorbell, and if she tried hard enough, Nesta could convince herself that it had all been a fluke and that she had imagined the conversation with Mr. Jones. So she squeezed her eyes shut and froze. Blocked out the world and all of its extraneous factors and fates, and stood there. Eyes closed. Arms limp. Heels so light that they might not have been touching the floor at all. And then—

Her eyes opened. A breath inhaled itself.

And Nesta walked the two strides to the door to open it.

~*~

Cassian wished that he had something to fiddle with.

A hand slipped into his pocket before he realized that he’d left his phone next to his wallet and they were both gone. He couldn’t even check the damn time, or count the seconds it had been since he’d rung the doorbell. It felt like an eternity. It might have been.

He dug his heels into the polished floor, running a hand through his hair for the millionth time that night. It wasn’t just the anxiety of the situation—the you-are-a-fucking-idiot-how-the-fuck-did-you-lose-your-literal-shit feeling—but the fact that the first place he had run to was the apartment building of a woman that he barely considered a friend. Were they even friends? They’d come a long way from having tense arguments on the sidewalk, but . . .

Cassian exhaled sharply, the rush of cold air freezing his windpipe. God, it had to have been at least ten minutes by now, right? Perhaps she was never coming to open the door. Maybe she had invited him up with the intention of leaving him to sleep on the floor outside her apartment. No matter, he convinced himself. At least the building was warmer than the freezing temperatures outside. He’d happily sleep on the floor until morning. Then he’d probably call Rhys from the front desk and—

He froze.

He could have called Rhys the moment he stepped into the building. Could have told the concierge that he knew Nesta, could have confirmed it with Nesta herself, and could have borrowed the phone to call his brother. Hell, he could have probably walked into a bodega and charmed the workers into lending him a call. Cassian rubbed his forehead. He was a goddamn idiot.

But he made no move to walk away.

His thoughts, like flies around a light, buzzed incessantly inside his mind, knocking into each other. Should he walk down to the concierge and call Rhys instead of waiting for a girl that probably wouldn’t even open the door? Should he abandon his quest while there was still time? Should he—

The door was flung open.

Nesta stood on the opposite side of the threshold, her face angled up to look at him. Without heels, she was a few inches shorter than he was used to, short enough that the top of her head came up to the bottom of his chin. Her hand rested on the doorknob, her other arm at her side. As if she, too, was unsure of herself.

“H—hi.” Cassian offered a tentative smile. “I—” His voice died away.

“Come in.” It wasn’t a request or an order. It was a statement, one that was weakly upheld by her soft voice.

It was an intrinsic feeling of déja vu that drove his movements, his mind flashing back to a moment weeks, months ago, when it had been her that had tentatively stepped over his threshold. And what it had led to.

He wasn’t enough of a hopeful fool to wish for something similar now.

“So you lost your belongings.”

“I—yes.” His eyes roamed the apartment, taking note of the dark gray sofa and matching glass coffee table on top of a black rug. The kitchen looked spotless, as if brand new. Nesta’s apartment was smaller than his, the thought making him hunch a little in guilt.

She placed her hands on her hips. “So what?”

Cassian blinked. “Sorry?”

“What’s your plan?” Her eyes were cutting. “Unless you plan to mooch off of me for longer than tonight.”

“What—no. No, Nesta, I’m—I’m in and out by the morning. Or sooner,” he promised. “I just need to . . . call my brother.”

If the same possibility occurred to her—that Cassian could have easily found a phone somewhere else—she didn’t show it. Nesta swept her phone off of the nearby kitchen counter and swiped through it. “Here.”

He took the phone from her, only marginally surprised to see that she had taken the liberty of dialing Rhys’s number for him. “You have Rhys’s number?”

“Feyre gave it to me a while ago,” she muttered, shuffling into the kitchen. “Do you want a drink?”

“No, I’m okay.”

She returned anyway with a bottle of wine and two glasses. Filling one up to the curve of the glass and the other all the way. To the brim. Cassian fidgeted with the hem of his shirt as dial tones rang through his ear.

Rhys picked up after the fifth ring. “Nesta, do you need something?” His tone was cold. Cassian stifled a wince, sensing Nesta’s glare on the back of his head. He had known that there was no love lost between Rhysand and Nesta. He hadn’t known that it was this bad.

“Rhys, it’s me.”

“Cassian? What the hell are you doing with Nesta’s phone?”

This time, he couldn’t hold back the wince. “I . . . lost my wallet and phone. And keys.”

“What? How the fuck did that happen?”

“I . . .” This time, the wince couldn’t be held back. “I lost track of them in Times Square.”

A breathless laugh sounded from the other side. “Really, Cass?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s not funny.”

“Look, just be glad you called me and not Az.” A pause. “Cassian, it’s midnight. And there’s a flood warning out. And there’s construction on the 1 line.”

He read between the lines. _I can’t come get you right now._ “Rhys . . .”

A sigh sounded. “There is no one else that hates this more than me, believe me. But you’re at Nesta’s, and I’m fairly certain she doesn’t completely hate you.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Look, I don’t you to be caught in the middle of a rainstorm or some shit. The weather’s supposed to clear by tomorrow morning. I’ll pick you up at eight tomorrow, along with some cash, a new phone, and your keys—”

“—Rhys,” he interrupted. “There’s no need. Just get me my keys, and I’ll do the other shit by myself. You don’t need to dole out cash left and right for me.”

Rhysand made an exasperated noise. “It’s not like I’m showering cash on some rando fifty million miles from here, Cassian. You’re my brother. Money is inconsequential.”

“Money is never inconsequential.”

“It is between us.” Rhys’s voice had taken on a tone that Cassian, Feyre, and Mor had dubbed “CEO-gruff.” “I’m getting you the stuff, Cass. Just focus on . . . spending the night.” He cringed. “Oh, God, that sounds awful, doesn’t it?”

“It does. Rhys, please, you don’t need to—”

“—it’s not a chore, Cass. I’d happily do it today, tomorrow, and for the rest of eternity. I’ll see you in the morning.” The line clicked.

Cassian took a breath. Slowly, he turned back to face Nesta.

The laywer had both elbows propped on the granite countertop, a nearly empty wine glass at a dangerous angle in one hand. He blinked. Wait, had that been the full glass—?

“So I take it you’re spending the night.”

“Yeah.”

Nesta pushed the second glass of wine towards him. He downed it in one gulp.

_We’re both going to need this tonight._

~*~

“Do you ever sleep?”

Nesta fixed her gray eyes on him. “It’s not late.”

“It’s one-thirty.”

“Exactly.” She uncapped a pen, the cap clicking neatly onto the end. “Not late.”

Cassian had decided to lounge on Nesta’s couch, a few glasses of wine having loosened them both up. He was trying—and failing—to focus on a novel Nesta had shoved into his hands, something about Paris in the 1920s. His eyes kept straying over the tops of the pages to look at her. And then darting back down to the pages. She was busy. She didn’t need his added scrutiny. But just one more quick look—

—he found her eyes staring back at him.

Nesta moved before he could even react, shutting her files with a sharp thud. “I’m going to bed.”

So he was spending the night on the sofa. He wasn’t about to complain. Nesta would have never tolerated his presence in her bed . . . and now that he was narrating the words in his mind, he understood why. Cassian raised an eyebrow. “Never seen someone sleep with their work.” He nodded to her files, now tucked underneath an arm.

Her eyes blazed. “Well, I’ve never seen a guest treat their host with such impertinence.”

“Impertinence? This is the twenty-first century, _Nesta._ You can say ‘rudeness.’ We’re not studying for the SAT.”

She bristled at his emphasis of her name. “Some of us prefer to have a higher vocabulary, you Neanderthal.”

“Neanderthal? That’s original, Nes.”

_“Don’t_ call me Nes.”

They had both edged closer as the words heated, now barely a foot apart.

“So you don’t want me to call you Nes, and you don’t seem to like Nesta either. Well,” he breathed. “Will Miss Archeron suffice?”

They were so close that he could feel her warm breath on his skin. So close that neither of them said anything. So close that both of them were afraid to break the spell.

He watched her eyes flicker across his face as if cataloguing all of his features. His jawline. His cheeks. His lips. Then they snapped to his eyes.

“Gray” was too simple a word to describe her eyes. They were hurricanes, thunderclaps, floods. Beautiful and ugly, but never just ugly. They weren’t the ashy gray of subway stations, or the city’s gum-flecked sidewalks. They were the milk in coffee, the endings of books, the losses in life juxtaposed with the victories. They were bittersweet, they were cruel, and they were _kismet._

The very definition of the word.

And when Cassian leaned down and their lips met, the word flared to life inside him.

His hands molded around her waist, her hips, her warmth drawing him closer and closer. Her fingers found their way to his neck, cautious against his skin. She let out a moan as he deepened the kiss, the sound tantalizing. Her arms twined around his neck.

Cassian didn’t realize that they were moving until Nesta’s back hit the kitchen counter, her back arching against it. Her breasts were pressed against his, his hips against hers.

And then she froze.

And pushed him away.

Cassian stumbled backwards. Nesta gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles white.

He took a small step forward. “Nesta—”

“Stop.” A small tremble seemed to tear through her before she straightened, her limbs stiffening once more. She shook her head. “I’m . . . I’m going to bed. Just . . . there’s a blanket on the couch.”

He watched her amble away, hand rising to her face as if to confirm _yes that was real that was real that was real._

~*~

She didn’t see him for another week.

The days passed in a hazy film, Monday then Wednesday then Friday. Nine to five, nine to five. Words fluttering in the air from coworker to coworker. And Nesta, in the middle of it all, standing in the eye of the hurricane. Her own hurricane.

Nesta gnashed her teeth together as she squinted at her computer screen, the words making her cross-eyed. She would have chewed on a pen, but it was a habit that she had given up long ago and was too proud to take up again. The Vanserra estate had been settled long ago, but some of the sons were coming forward and bitching about how they deserved larger shares. Not to mention the fact that she’d also been saddled with a sub-company of a sub-company of Thesan Nguyen’s pharmaceutical giant’s acquisition of some new medicine. A growl loosed itself as she leaned back, her headache reaching a breaking point as she considered all of her open cases. She reached blindly towards the bottle of Tylenol. How many had she already taken?

“Fuck it,” Nesta muttered to herself, dry swallowing another one. She rubbed at her temples. If she didn’t think about him, it would all go away.

At least, that was what she had been telling herself all week.

A sharp rap sounded on the glass wall that encased her office. “Ms. Archeron?” Sophie, a timid-looking law intern, stood in the doorway.

“Yes?”

She shrunk under Nesta’s intense stare. “T—there’s a man asking for you.”

“His name?” Nesta grabbed a pen, intending to snap _I am busy at the current moment, may I have your name_ before Sophie stammered.

“A . . . Mr. Tassos?”

Nesta froze. “God-fucking-dammit,” she swore. Sophie backed away a step.

The lawyer took a deep breath. “Tell him to wait outside the building,” she said flatly. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

The intern nodded, face pale with terror, and fled back down the hallway.

Nesta squeezed her eyes shut, the pain in her head only escalating. What the hell was he doing here? She shook her head. _I can’t catch a fucking break._ With his unexpected arrival at her apartment, and what had happened after, she—

“No,” she said out loud. Before feeling her cheeks head up. God, he had her talking to herself like she was crazy. Nesta snatched up her bag, pushing in her chair with more force than usual. The hallway lights were already dark, Sophie nowhere to be found. The click of her heels echoed throughout the empty floor, the sound following her into the elevator.

Nesta slumped against the elevator wall, closing her eyes. She had another twenty-three floors to go. Just enough time to sort out what she would say to him. Perhaps she should reject him on the spot. She didn’t need any of . . . whatever this was in her life.

_But what if that’s not what he’s here for?_

Then she would see what he wanted and adjust accordingly.

_By doing what? Just ten floors left,_ her inner voice taunted.

Nesta bit her lip. And opened the floodgates keeping her deepest thoughts inside.

So if Cassian wanted to . . . she swallowed. She’d have to say no; there was no other option. It was a violation of attorney code of conduct at worst, frowned upon at best. Nesta gripped the bar attached to the elevator. Of course, she wasn’t representing him in a domestic manner, such as a divorce, so—

She shook her head. No. She was _representing_ him. That was the issue. He was her current client. He was supposed to trust her to take care of his matters. And in law, the matters were always personal.

She was in power here, Nesta realized. If they d—whatever they did—and someone found out, they might screech that she was taking advantage of him. She’d be disciplined. She’d lose that beautiful glass-walled office, that hope of her name tacked on after an ampersand, emblazoned on the top of papers and an office building.

Her hip hit the metal bar behind her, and a shiver ran down her spine as she remembered the feel of Cassian’s hands on her skin, his lips on hers, the heat—

Nesta’s heels wobbled as the elevator bounced to a stop, her hand gripping the bar at just the right time. Nesta straightened her blazer, exhaling sharply before stepping out.

She could see his silhouette even before she pushed the revolving door and stepped out. The glass swished behind her, panes spinning round and round before stopping abruptly. Nesta stood just shy of the glass. Unmoving.

Waiting.

For one of them.

Her.

“Surely you have better things to do on a Friday night than stand outside an office building.” Her voice was soft. Softer than she would have liked. She saw him jolt a little, as if she had startled him.

Nesta was unprepared for what ran through her when Cassian turned. When his face came into view, those infuriating amber eyes and hint of a smile, the dark scruff that edged his jawline; it was almost too much, all at once.

His voice was like champagne, sweet and tantalizing, rasping down the throat, eddying away with warmth in the distance. “Nesta,” he said, the word— _her name_ —sounding more like a whisper in the din of the city’s cars.

“Cassian.”

He ran a hand through his hair. She watched closely as the first hint of doubt—self-doubt—seemed to flash through his eyes. His hand dropped from his hair, tucking into a pocket. “I . . .”

Nesta said nothing. Did not help him. But more than that, she saw herself in him. She saw herself in his nervous brush through his hair, though her arms were plastered to her sides. She saw herself in the biting of his lip, although she kept her lips taut in a neutral expression. And that was the difference, she realized.

The reason why, in this world and in all other accompanying, strange alternate lives she could map out in her mind, they would never be together.

He was wild. A dreamer. Kind. Selfless. Spontaneous, confident, an I-don’t-give-a-shit kind of rise-to-the-top.

She was stuck. A realist. Selfish. Uncaring. Planned, hidden, an I-give-too many-shits kind of claw-my-way-to-the-top.

But most of all, he wore his heart on his sleeve. And dealt with life that way.

But most of all, she opened herself to no one. And dealt with life that way.

And yet . . .

When his lips touched hers, she didn’t back away.

~*~

_Summer_

So one kiss turned into another. Then another.

Then they turned into a date. Then another.

“I can’t represent you anymore.”

Cassian froze, a mouthful of linguini already in his mouth. He swallowed roughly. “What do you mean—” A coughing fit interrupted him before he grabbed his glass of water and downed it. “What do you mean you can’t represent me anymore?”

Nesta sat across from him in the dim Italian restaurant, her face impassive. “I can’t be your lawyer anymore,” she repeated.

He exhaled. “Okay. Why, exactly?”

She sighed. “This—” she gestured between the two of them “—this, whatever this is, is unethical.

“In what way?”

“You’re my client. You trust me with personal matters. We’re involved in a romantic relationship, ergo—”

“—so we’re involved in a romantic relationship?” He couldn’t help but smirk.

Nesta responded with a deep scowl. “Yes, Cassian, unless you’d like to dispute that?”

“Never.” He saw something ease in her eyes. Cassian’s fingers itched to reach for the camera in the knapsack at his feet, to etch this memory into paper. Nesta Archeron . . . content.

He’d never call her soft. That wasn’t a word that ever crossed his mind. Nesta Archeron was a million other things, and soft was the missing, accepted quality that enhanced all the others.

She cleared her throat. “We’re in a relationship. And with my access to your legal matters . . .” Nesta stared at her glass of wine, her eyes faraway. “It doesn’t exactly shine a sympathetic light on this situation.”

“We don’t . . .” he hesitated. “Nesta, we don’t have to be together in public. We could keep this under wraps, we—”

“—no,” she said adamantly. The fire had reignited in her gray eyes. “We can’t, Cassian.”

“Nesta, I need you as my lawyer.”

She sighed, a polished black nail running along the rim of her wine glass. “Fine. Let’s say we date in secret. Then what? I know you, Cassian. You wouldn’t like hiding something from your family, or your friends. And my office gossips incessantly. The truth would come out one way or another.”

“But . . . you’ve been my lawyer since the start, Nes.”

Her eyes flashed. “Don’t call me Nes.” That hadn’t changed.

“Okay,” Cassian said. “Then who should I turn to?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I would usually recommend one of my coworkers, but . . .”

He waited for her to finish, but she never did. “But what?”

Her eyes flashed towards him, and there was a deeper, intrinsic vein of hatred running through them. Not at him. “But I can see their faces when they find out the real reason that I’m dropping you as a client.”

“So don’t tell them.”

“I’m not an idiot, I wasn’t planning on it, but—”

“—as far as everyone else in our lives knows, we hate each other. Or, more specifically,” he shot her a grin that she reciprocated with a glare, “you hate me. Keep acting the way that you do, and no one will know. I guarantee it.”

“This is ridiculous,” muttered Nesta, but her voice had none of its usual acidic bite.

He read into it fluently.

_This just might work._

~*~

“Cassian.”

“Nesta.”

She could feel the gazes of everyone around them: Feyre and Elain’s nervous glances, Rhysand’s cool observation, Mor and Andromache’s curious looks, Azriel’s analyzing scrutiny, Amren’s disinterested stare. But now, her eyes were fixed upon the amber gaze of the man standing before her.

“Didn’t know you would be coming,” Cassian smirked.

“I certainly wouldn’t have RSPV’d if I knew I’d have to share space with your over-inflated ego.”

He put a mocking hand on his heart. “My, my, Nesta, such cutting words. Whatever shall I do?”

She nodded towards the window. “There’s an exit.”

“If it would make you happy, m’lady, certainly. But I value my life . . .”

“Well, it seems like—”

“—okay!” Feyre cut in with a nervous laugh. “Nesta, wine?”

“Sure.” Nesta didn’t take her eyes off of Cassian.

“Cassian, there’s a spreadsheet I want you to check over with me,” added Rhysand.

“‘Course, Rhysie.” Cassian blew her an exaggerated kiss before sauntering off with his brother. Azriel and Mor followed closely. Amren walked away, probably to find more vodka.

“I’m going to kill that prick,” Nesta growled. While trying to bite back a smile.

“I thought you two were fine,” said Elain, frowning.

Her older sister nodded her thanks to Feyre—silently refilling everyone’s glasses—before taking a huge gulp of red wine. “I never said that.”

“No,” Feyre conceded, plopping down on a beige armchair, “but neither of you called the other an ‘ignorant bastard’ or ‘a stone-cold asshole,’ so we filled in the blanks.”

_Stone-cold asshole? That was all you could come up with?_ She’d have to ask him about it later. “Well, you filled in the blanks wrong. I tolerate him. He tolerates me.”

Feyre studied her, light blue eyes austere. The setting sun, slanting in through the windows, caught the jewel on her finger, sparking blue reflections all across the room. Nesta tried her hardest not to stare. Rhysand had proposed a month ago, to no one’s surprise (the real surprise was that he had managed to wait this long). It was still surreal to her; that her youngest sister, barely twenty-four, was about to be married. That just yesterday—or so it seemed—they had been three sisters and a father, huddled in a slum. That just yesterday Nesta had left, hate burning in her eyes, throat raw from shouting. That just yesterday Nesta had abandoned them for a future that burned as bright as the fire within her—an irresistible future that she should have resisted. Nesta exhaled slowly into her curved glass.

“Things have changed, haven’t they?” She said suddenly.

“Yes,” replied Elain thoughtfully. But it hadn’t been Elain that Nesta had directed the question towards.

Feyre’s eyes flitted all around Nesta before deciding to return to the steely gray gaze. A spark ran through them both as they met, something warm and something gentle. Something painful and something found.

“Yes,” Feyre repeated softly. “Yes, they have.”

~*~

“So how do you like Nesta as your lawyer?” Rhys asked him, point-blank. Behind him, he heard Azriel shutting the door. Mor leaned her hip against Rhys’s desk. The laptop wasn’t even on.

Cassian gave a short laugh. “This was your plan? Lure me into your office with a boring question about spreadsheets and then ambush me with an interrogation?”

“I’m serious, Cass.”

“We all are,” Mor piped in.

Cassian looked at them. From Rhys to Mor to Azriel. “You guys are really concerned?”

“Yes,” Azriel said firmly.

“Then here’s the truth: I think Nesta is a good lawyer.”

Rhys raised an eyebrow. “Just good?”

He stared at his brother. “Is there another adjective I should use?”

“You two were ready to claw each other’s faces off back there.” Azriel pointed out, his voice smooth.

“Correction: _she_ was ready to claw my face off. I was fine.”

“And you don’t think that’s an issue?” Mor exclaimed. “Cass, you probably shouldn’t entrust your business to a person who hates you.”

“I think you’re overreacting. Who could hate this beautiful face?”

“Nesta Archeron,” his family replied in unison.

“Look, Cass,” sighed Rhys. “It’s obvious that Nesta doesn’t like you and you don’t really like Nesta—” _Oh, Rhysie. Keep believing that._ “—I know lawyers. Ones that are on par with her. Maybe even better. I could recommend you to them, and you’d have to stop tiptoeing around Nesta.”

They had been planning to play their game of charades for as long as it took, but this was much better. Cassian sighed, hoping it was realistic enough to convey a sense of capitulation. “Okay. Fine. I’ll switch lawyers.”

~*~

It was the start of heatwave season in the city, and Cassian’s A/C was broken.

Thankfully, that was one of the perks of having a girlfriend: another apartment to go hide from the heat at.

“What do you think about this one?” Cassian held up one of the photos that he’d shot for an edition of Vogue.

Nesta looked up from her laptop, where she’d been furiously slamming away at a report. “You’re the photographer. You tell me.”

“Yeah, but I want a second opinion.”

“Cassian, I’m not an art person. I don’t know anything about photos besides what they cost.”

“Nesta,” he replied, his tone carefree.

“Cassian.”

“I have a question for you.”

She rested a hand on the top of her laptop screen. “Will it take long?”

“That depends.”

“Fine. Go.”

“What caught your eye in the ballerina photo?”

Nesta didn’t say anything. Then—a look of disbelief and a shake of her head. “Nine months.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Nine months. That’s how long it took you to ask that question.” She shook her head again, and laughed. “You are something else, Cassian Tassos.”

_Cassian Tassos._ It wasn’t the first time she’d said his full name, but it was the first time she’d said it like that. Smiling. Laughing.

God, where was his camera when he needed it? He peeked at the knapsack near his feet. It sat there. Obstinately. _Goddammit._

But none of it distracted him from the fact that Nesta still hadn’t answered his question. “So what did you like about it, _Nesta Archeron?”_ He smirked as her eyes narrowed.

A shadow had crossed over her face, so different from the laugh that had shone on it just seconds prior. She was quiet.

“Nesta?”

“Cassian,” she snapped.

He leaned back, his smirk still playing on his lips. “Are you just too proud to admit that one of my photos made you . . . feel things?”

“I’m not a rock, Cassian. I have emotions.”

“I know.”

That seemed to surprise her most of all.

“So what about it?” Asked Cassian. Softer this time.

Nesta was still quiet. With no sign of letting up.

So he leaned forward. Rested a forearm on the glass table between them. “That’s okay,” he said softly. “I—”

“—I don’t know.”

He waited for her to add more.

Nesta took a soft breath. “I don’t know. I wasn’t planning on going to your show, you know. A colleague invited me there. His idea of a date, I guess.” She took a sip of wine. “He was a pig, and I planned to leave when I . . .” Her eyes met his. “I saw the photo,” her voice was now a whisper. “And I don’t know, I . . . I wanted to see more.” She twisted her hands in her lap. “I saw myself in her, I suppose. In the photo.”

Her eyes met his, and there was an electric moment of understanding between them. But still, he was silent.

“I guess I . . . felt like that. I _feel_ like that. On a stage, frozen in time, in a delicate position with the whole world looking at me. Asking themselves, _is she going to fuck up?_ And I can’t say a thing, because the moment I move, I have to hit the ground running. I don’t have a choice to stop and slow down.” Nesta swallowed roughly.

Cassian saw something different in her eyes, so vastly different from the anger and hate that typically coated it. Now, there was . . .

Pain.

“Nesta—”

“—what do you want for dinner?” She asked stiffly. And just like that, it was over.

Cassian didn’t hear his response, something perfunctory. His mind was miles and months away.

~*~

“So how did you get your start as a photographer?”

A breeze ruffled Nesta’s hair, one of the cooler days in the summer settling upon the city like bumping into an old friend. She speared a piece of lettuce on her fork as Cassian set down his burger.

He smirked at her, and though she was loath to admit it, the sight made her heart skip a beat. God, when did she become so lovesick? “So you _are_ curious about me.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, Cassian. I am curious about you. We can skip the pleasantries.”

“Okay. Okay,” he wiped his fingers on a napkin. “I’ll tell you.”

“Is it a grand secret?” Nesta asked, her tone teasing.

“Of sorts.” His tone was less playful, and she noticed. Cassian stared behind her at nothing in particular, his eyes faraway before he answered. His fingers folded his napkin in half, in half, in half until there was nothing left to fiddle with. “You know my childhood.”

Nesta ruminated on the statement. “Not as much as you think.”

She knew enough about it to not pry. Just as he knew enough about hers to drop the subject whenever it came up.

Cassian traced a water ring on the table. “My dad was druggie. When I was four, my mom finally gathered enough resources to move out and take me with her. Three years later, these . . . men broke down our front door.” Nesta’s eyes flickered to his fingers, now curled into a fist. He dropped it into his lap. “Turns out, my dad had borrowed too much money and the guy he borrowed from sent his cronies to take my mom when my dad couldn’t pay his debt. His big mistake—” Cassian laughed “—was thinking that my dad gave a shit about me or my mom. That he ever cared.” He stared down at the table. When he met her eyes again, there were no tears in his eyes. Not like some people might have had. No, there was anger. Anger and pain and disgust, festering emotions too deep, too old for fresh tears. “I never knew what they did to my mom, not until I was twenty and I paid a PI to find out.” He shook his head. “They killed her. The bastards killed her.”

“I’m sorry.”

To others, _I’m sorry_ was what they said when they were at a loss for words. To the two of them, it was resonation. That Nesta knew precisely what he was saying, because she had lived through something similar. That much was unsaid, understood.

Cassian nodded, then cleared his throat. “I spent . . . days in that apartment, by myself, until the landlord kicked me out because we hadn’t paid the bill. He sent me to child services, and I was placed in the home of a wealthy socialite.”

“Rhysand’s mother?” She wondered.

“No. Grace Armstrong. She took me on as her personal charity project. A sort of, ‘oh, look what a good person I am! Taking care of this poor orphan boy!’ But despite living in wealth beyond my wildest dreams, she never took care of me. She was more concerned with her husband and how he never seemed to come home for dinner. I realized pretty quickly that she had taken me in as a last-ditch effort to draw her his attention back to her. And when she finally accepted that nothing she did would do that, she lost interest in me. She didn’t want me anymore. She sent a notice back to social services, probably some bullshit about how I was unruly and difficult, and they agreed that to take me back. The next morning,” Cassian shook his head and laughed, an action that looked out of place for the story he was telling. “The next morning, I decided that I wouldn’t wait around for her to throw me back to the city like a gum wrapper. So I packed my things and left. I was angry, and I could barely see through it. I must’ve looked like an idiot, an eleven-year-old boy lugging a huge suitcase down Fifth Avenue.

“I was almost to the subway station when I saw this boy just standing on a corner, in front of a bodega, about to go in. He had his wallet in his hands, and I just knew that he was one of those sons of so-and-so who had millions to their name the second they were born. So I stormed up to him and grabbed the money out of his hands. He tried to fight me for it, but I was a lot bigger than him. I literally tore down Fifth Avenue, Louis Vuitton suitcase in one hand, fat wallet in another.”

Nesta raised an eyebrow. “So you stole a little boy’s wallet?”

“Yeah.” Cassian grinned. “You wanna hear more about him?”

“Sure.” She rolled her eyes. “I’d like to imagine how that boy grew up. Probably traumatized, by the sound of this story.”

“Oh, you don’t have to imagine. It was Rhys.”

Nesta stared at him. “You mugged Rhys, circa 2000?”

“Yeah.”

Now she was even more curious, although she wouldn’t admit it.

“I don’t know what happened, but once the adrenaline wore off, I just . . . stopped. And I mean, stopped. I camped outside a bank that first night, and moved around for almost two weeks. It ended when social services found me and took me under their custody. I spent another week at the orphanage where I grew up, in a place I never thought I’d have to face again.

“When they called me to quote-un-quote ‘go talk to someone,’ I thought for sure it was going to be someone booking me for the robbery.”

“And it wasn’t?”

Cassian smiled, a genuine smile. “No. I walked into the room, and there was a woman sitting at the table. She was in her thirties, elegant-looking. And I have no idea what I said to her, but it all ended when she told me that she wasn’t there to send me to jail. She was there to adopt me.” He exhaled. “That was Rhys’s mom.

“Apparently she’d been in the same social circle with Mrs. Armstrong, and she’d seen me from time to time—although I’d never seen her. And when Rhys told her that he’d been mugged by me, and that I’d been picked up by social services, she took pity on me. She took me in. A couple months later, she took Azriel in too, and that was how we became brothers.” Cassian stared off into the distance again, vacant before he continued. “Do you know about Rhys’s dad?”

“Only a little,” she admitted. “I know that he didn’t treat any of you well.”

“He never laid a finger on Rhys’s mom or his sister, and honestly I don’t think he cared much about what they did. But he dug his claws into the rest of us, especially Rhys. And even when teachers at school asked him about the bruises on his arms, they couldn’t do anything about it. It was just . . . how it was.” Cassian gave her a weak smile. “But I’m getting off-track, aren’t I?”

“You don’t have to continue,” Nesta offered quietly. “You’ve told me enough.” It was more than she’d ever told him.

“No, I—” he took a shaky breath. “I have to.

“I got a camera for my twelfth birthday. Rhys’s mom admitted that it was because she didn’t know what else to get me, but in reality, she gave me the most valuable thing in the world. Because the first time I held it in my hand, something sparked to life inside me. And from that day until today, I took photos of anything and everything. And when I was pushed into college as an economics major, it was the only thing that got me through those years. Photography means . . . more than words can say to me. It’s a part of me. It lives and breathes and hates and loves with me. I know it sounds ridiculous, but . . . it was kismet.”

“Kismet?”

The corners of his eyes crinkled. “What, you don’t believe in fate?”

She licked her lips. “I’m a little doubtful.”

“Look at that. Nesta Archeron is a nihilist.”

“I’m not a nihilist. I just don’t believe in intangible concepts.”

“That is the definition of a nihilist.”

Nesta waved an arm in the air. “You can’t see fate. You can’t prove that it exists. Ergo, fate does not exist.”

“Yeah, well, just because people from two hundred years ago couldn’t see oxygen molecules doesn’t mean that they don’t exist.” He gave her one of his signature grins, and she rolled her eyes.

He was going to be the death of her.

~*~

“Can I take a picture of you?”

Nesta blinked at his question, unsure of if she had heard it properly. “I’m sorry?”

Cassian looked nervous repeating it. “Can—can I take a picture of you?”

They were sitting on Nesta’s couch, her legs propped up on the cushions. His arm behind her head. A blanket and a copy of _Mrs. Dalloway_ were strewn over her torso. She had already taken out her contacts, and her glasses were askew on her face.

In other words, she had never looked less photo-ready than she did then.

“Are you crazy?” Nesta stared at him. “I’m not ready for a photo. And don’t give me that shit about candids. I—”

_Click._

In her frenzy, she hadn’t noticed him quietly raising his camera to her face.

“Cassian.” Her tone was dangerous. It was the tone she used in court.

“Nesta.”

“Cassian, give me the fucking camera.” His eyes flitted down to the camera, and she lunged for it. _“Cassian.”_

“Wait,” he interrupted. “Nesta, this is a good photo.”

“I don’t fucking care.”

“Nesta, please—”

“—taking pictures of individuals on their private property is _illegal_ without their _express permission,_ Cassian. I would expect a photographer to know that.”

“Nesta—” she lunged for the camera again, and she couldn’t contain the small spark of victory she felt when her fingers closed around it.

Nesta plucked the instrument out of his hands. “And what are you going to do now?” She breathed.

Cassian looked up at her, and it was only then that she realized how it must have looked. Her, on top of him, sitting on top of him. Him, beneath her, looking up at her like . . . that.

“You’re right,” he murmured, his eyes raking over her face. “What am I going to do now?”

It was easy, so, so, easy to relax. To loosen her muscles and lower her lips to his. To thread her fingers into his hair and melt into him.

Cassian responded fiercely, his hand at the back of her head crushing her to him. She let

out a small gasp as her hips bucked into his, the friction making her core pound with desire. A split second of doubt flashed across her mind before she slipped her hand underneath his shirt, his skin hot to the touch. He responded in kind, fingers trailing down to the hem of her shirt.

Then, all of a sudden, he had lifted her in his arms. Her legs, her arms still wrapped around him. He walked them to the wall, and a choked groan escaped her lips as he pressed her to the wall, caging her in. Cassian ground his hips against hers, and she could have growled in frustration at the feeling building up between her legs.

He sucked at a point on her neck, and finally, she moaned fully. “Cassian.”

“Sweetheart,” he mumbled into her neck.

She yanked at his shirt, pressing a hand to his bare chest after it had been thrown aside. The air nipped at her bare skin as her own shirt was torn off. Neither of them parted from the other, not even as they stumbled back to Nesta’s bedroom.

It was only until Nesta’s pants were off and Cassian’s fingers edged towards the clasp of her bra that her breath became trapped in her throat.

“Nesta?” His voice was soft, his eyes looking down at her with concern.

“I—” What would she say?

“It’s okay if you don’t want to do this,” he whispered, hands cupping her face.

She hadn’t told him everything about Tomas, but he knew enough. To stop. To ask.

It wasn’t her first time after Tomas. She’d thrown herself into hedonism after it, attempting to nurse away her pain until she realized that no amount of booze or men would ever dull the memory. If anything, they dulled the knife—so that every time it dug into her, the wound became deeper and deeper.

Even years and miles later, Tomas Mandray was still controlling her life.

She swallowed. No more.

“No,” she whispered fiercely. “Cassian, I want this.”

“Are you sure?” He breathed.

Nesta closed her eyes. Then opened them. “Yes.”

Cassian kissed her, the movement soft and . . .

Loving.

She didn’t dwell on it, especially not as Cassian slipped her bra off of her shoulders and leaned down to suck on a nipple. Nesta let out a small breath. He bit down, and her fingers tightened in his hair. She felt him smile against her skin. “Cassian,” she growled.

“Patience, sweetheart.” His fingers ghosted over her abdomen, then along the waistband of her panties. They came off easily, his fingers deft. And before she knew it, his head was buried between her legs.

A strangled sound came out of her throat as he pressed his tongue against her core, the sensation dizzying. And then—oh God. He thrust his fingers into her. Nesta gripped the sheets, her knuckles white from self-restraint.

“I want to hear you,” murmured Cassian. “Let me hear you, sweetheart.” He eased another finger into her.

She came, keening, her head thrown back. Her body felt like it was set on fire, yearning for more. “Cassian,” she moaned. Nesta reached for him, her lips crushed against his as her fingers fumbled with his pants.

They were bare before each other. Cassian rose over her, his hands braced on her knees. Spreading them apart. She held back a cry as she felt the tip of his cock rubbing against her. “Cassian,” she said, the syllables coming out as a desperate whine. He leaned down to kiss her again, and she could feel the vibrations of his own desperate breaths.

She let out a groan as he thrust into her, filling her so quickly her head spun and her body burned. He changed his position and—oh— _oh._ Nesta’s nails dug into his shoulders, her back arching off of the mattress. She opened her eyes to see Cassian’s expression.

It was wonder on his face as he stared down at her, pure wonder. She would have blushed at the thought, would have thought long and hard about it if he hadn’t chosen that exact moment to reach between them and run his finger over her clit. Nesta cried out as she climaxed, her sounds muting to whimpers as Cassian finished with her.

Cassian lay on top of her, her arms still wrapped around his neck. Bringing him closer. Nesta closed her eyes as she basked in the warm, blissful moment, her breathing still ragged with pleasure.

She had told Cassian she didn’t believe in things she couldn’t see, but she listened to her soul then _—yes, yes, yes._

~*~

“This is a good opportunity, Cassian.”

Cassian stared at Amren’s computer, angled so that he could read the screen. “I know,” he said. “But don’t you think this is moving a bit . . . quickly?”

Her eyes narrowed, the winged eyeliner drawing them even sharper. “Quickly?” Amren let out an incredulous laugh. “Tassos, you do realize you haven’t been on a project like this—a project that actually earns money—”

“—thanks, Amren.”

“I mean it.” She jabbed her finger at the screen. “Europe. Spain, France, the Netherlands, England, with magazine offers thrown in? This would more than cover your fees and debts.” The agent leaned back in her chair, studying him. “It’s too good to pass up.”

Cassian bit his tongue. He couldn’t say—say, scream, roar—the words he wanted to. The _I can’t do this because I don’t want to make Nesta feel like I’m abandoning her._ The _it’s six months, it’s too long._ He swallowed roughly as he looked at the screen again. “How long do I have before the RSVP deadline?”

“Three weeks.”

“Right,” he muttered. “Right, okay, sure.” Cassian snatched up his bag, pushing the chair in as he stood up. “I’ll let you know.”

“Cassian,” Amren called. One foot out the door and one foot in. Cassian froze in the doorway.

When he looked back, his agent had rested her forearms upon her desk, a look of deep contemplation on her usually cold face. “I understand if you have reservations from being away from . . . home for so long.”

No. She couldn’t know. They had been so careful. But Amren’s pause said otherwise.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replied blandly.

At that, Amren snorted. “If the status quo does not change,” she told him, “if everyone is exactly as successful as they have been and they will be, then you will still have everything you have when you come back.”

~*~

Nesta was late.

It was 9:05 by the time she stepped out of the elevator. Scarcely long enough to drop a pin, but enough that people stared at her as she walked to her desk. The ever-punctual Nesta Archeron, who spat fire at law interns when they were seconds late, was _late._

She blamed her creature of a boyfriend, who had nuzzled his face into her neck when she had tried to get up out of bed. And had trailed his hand down her abdomen and right between—

_No._ She shook herself out of her own head, gripping her coffee tightly as she made her appropriate glares to her colleagues. Now was not the time to think about . . . that.

“Ms. Archeron.”

She started a little at the sight of John Thompson. A man that she had only met a handful of times, a man whose name was emblazoned on the side of the building. “Mr. Thompson.”

He gestured to his office. “In here, please, Ms. Archeron.”

Nesta’s heart raced wildly as she stepped into the room. It didn’t slow down when she caught sight of William Smith, the other name partner. He offered her a small smile. “Please, take a seat, Ms. Archeron.”

If it had been under any other circumstances, any other day, Nesta would have been congratulating herself on the inside for finally getting promoted. But it was today, and— _stupid, stupid, stupid_ for not paying more attention to her coworkers. How they stared and whispered amongst themselves at her entrance. How she was shot looks of pity, looks of disgust and barely concealed glee. It hadn’t been because she was late.

It was because she was in trouble.

_In trouble._ Her head spun. What a middle school term. _In trouble._ It meant that you had done something ridiculous, at the worst a minor offense, and you would be sent to “the office.” _In trouble._ That concept didn’t exist as an adult, and it certainly didn’t exist for someone like her.

She was dizzy.

“Ms. Archeron.” Thompson had taken his position behind his desk, Smith sitting just a little behind him. “Do you know why we’ve called you in here today?”

She shook her head mutely.

Thompson pursed his lips. “Okay,” he said, his tone still soft. John Thompson was a soft man. Kind, even. He wouldn’t—God, if she even thought about the word, she would vomit all over this office.

“You’re one of our most dedicated employees, Nesta,” Smith spoke up. The use of her name made it all the more personal, all the worse. She sat there numbly. “And I think I speak on behalf of John and all of the people in this office when I say that.”

The entire law firm office or this one room office? She wanted to ask. Wanted to laugh.

“But it’s come to our attention recently that you might have . . . engaged in some behaviors that don’t exactly uphold the morals of this firm.” Thompson inclined his head as if to say _would you like to explain now, or later?_

“I—” she croaked. “Can you clarify?”

“An employee saw you at lunch a week ago with a Mr. Cassian Tassos, who I understand was a client of yours for the past few months. According to them, you two were . . . closer than most lawyers and their clients are.” Smith’s tone left no room for debate.

Nesta scoured her mind. A week ago. She’d had lunch with Cassian four times. She’d held hands with him. She’d let him kiss her on the cheek. He’d held her by the waist. He’d stolen a kiss once, in the middle of the street. It could have been any of those times.

“Nesta, by no means are we trying to pry into your personal life.” There was Thompson’s soothing tone again. “But you know that dating a client, while not grounds for disbarment, is still highly unethical.”

Disbarment? Was that what they had originally had in mind? Her head spun wildly. All those years of work and money, gone. Fed into the mouth of a faceless beast—

“Miss Archeron?” Both of the partners were looking at her now. “Nesta,” prompted Thompson gently. “We’d like to hear anything you’d like to say.”

_What the fuck do you have to say for yourself?_

Nesta took a deep breath. She was not some random girl with no wits plucked off up the streets and thrust under the knife. She was Nesta Archeron. And a good lawyer to boot. “He was not my client when things became . . . personal between us,” she said flatly. “I never initiated a relationship with him while I was his attorney.”

Thompson nodded kindly. “Of course, Nesta. We—”

“—still have to let you go,” Smith interjected. “We’re sorry, Nesta, but all of us know that this is still a violation of our code of ethics, debatable circumstances or not.”

_Let you go._

_Let you go._

_Let you go._

She had been fighting a losing battle from the start.

“But we will do everything in our power to set you up at your next job,” promised Thompson. “Both William and I would be happy to write you the requisite letters of recommendation, and—”

“—when do I need to clear out my office?” asked Nesta flatly.

The partners looked at each other. “By the end of this week would be best,” Thompson replied.

Nesta inhaled sharply. And stood up.

If someone had looked for a tremble in her chin, they would have found none.

If someone had looked for a tear in her eye, they would have found none.

If someone had looked for a tremble in her black heels, they would have found none.

Thompson and Smith had the good sense to look wary as she leaned over to shake their hands.

“I think you have made a great mistake,” she told them. Her eyes never straying from theirs. “And I will spend the rest of my career proving it.”

~*~

The euphoria of rebellion had worn off once she entered her apartment.

It had dissipated a long while before that, actually. When she was on the train, her head leaning against the dirty car wall, the same thought looping through her head. _You are unemployed. You have no money. No income. You are a failure._

“Hey, sweetheart, you’re home ear—” Cassian stopped short as he took her in. Nesta didn’t know how she looked. She hadn’t cried, hadn’t screamed. She had just . . . felt empty. He was in front of her in an instant, his hands around her arms. “What happened?”

“I got fired.” Even her words had no more to them than a dull ring. Her voice was wooden.

Cassian’s face darkened. “What the fuck did they do?”

Nesta shook her arms out of his grasp. “Is that ziti?” She asked, her tone upbeat.

“Nesta.”

“I think that I’ll have quite a bit of free time now, so maybe we can finally go see that exhibit at the Met that you wanted?”

“Nesta.”

“Or maybe I’ll finally visit Elain at her new apartment, I haven’t seen it yet—”

“—Nesta.” Cassian spun her around roughly. One hand cupping her cheek, another on her hip.

_Après moi, le déluge._

“What?” She screamed at him, tearing herself out of his embrace a second time. “WHAT?” Nesta laughed maniacally as she stormed around her apartment, snatching the pillows off of her couch and slamming them to the ground. “I’m fucking fine, Cassian. Don’t you fucking worry about me. Just run off to Europe and everything will fix itself, won’t it? WON’T IT?”

He stared at her. “How did you find out about that?”

She laughed coldly. “Maybe you shouldn’t leave your things out in the open for everyone to see. Your phone was on the table.”

“You looked through my email?”

“It was _open._ Why, do you have something to hide?” Nesta laughed again, the sound as empty as a breath of air. “Never mind, I know you do.” She waved an arm at him, storming away towards her bedroom. “Just go, Cassian. Just run away from here.”

He grabbed her wrist. “Nesta.”

“Stop saying my fucking name!” She screamed, the sound tearing at her throat. Hot tears streamed down her cheeks, her eyes burning. “You know, if it wasn’t for you, I might still have a fucking job!”

Silence.

Dead silence fell between them.

He dropped her wrist. It fell at her side.

The words burned into her. Too vile to be repeated, even in her mind. But she was too proud to take them back.

Their eyes met, amber to gray, but unlike all the previous times, there was no spark, no burst of electricity.

Only resignation.

The next words out of his mouth were not what she had been expecting.

“I love you, Nesta.”

It would have been better if he had screeched curse words and slanders like she had.

She barely noticed he was gathering his belongings until the door was open and he stood on the threshold. “And I know you’re hurting right now,” Cassian said softly. “But I hope that I’ll see you again. Soon.”

The slam of the door would reverberate in Nesta’s ears for many sleepless nights and half-awake days.

~*~

_Autumn_

“So that’s it, then?” Rhys clapped him on the back. “One more show, and you’re off?”

Cassian leaned against the counter, a beer in his hand. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“I’ll miss you,” Andromache offered, one of Mor’s arms slung around her shoulders.

“Oh my God, it’s not like I’m dying,” he rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, it’d be better if you did,” Azriel interjected. “We’d have a hell of a better time throwing a Cassian Tassos funeral than a Cassian Tassos going-away party. At least a funeral is a _real_ going-away party.”

“Witness the rare snarky Azriel peek out of its shell!” Mor cupped a hand to her mouth and shouted through Rhys and Feyre’s apartment. “A once in a century event!”

Azriel flipped her off.

She smirked. “Ooh, a double special.”

“So where are we going to eat?” Elain came into the kitchen with a salad in her hands.

“Let’s go into the dining room,” suggested Rhys.

“The only New Yorker with enough privilege to utter the phrase ‘dining room,’ and we just happen to be in his esteemed presence,” Cassian nudged him and looked over at Feyre. “What’s it like being in the one percent of the one percent of the one percent of the—”

“—none of you ever give me enough vodka to ward off the headache you all cause me,” interrupted Amren loudly.

“And with that, the dragon signals the start of our feast,” Mor nodded towards the dining room. “Let’s eat.”

“Cass, help me with the rest of the food?” Rhys asked.

“Sure.”

They worked in silence as Rhys took the lasagna out of the oven and Cassian took dip out of the refrigerator until his brother said, “I’m sorry about Nesta.”

A split-second freeze was all he allowed his brother to glimpse before he replied, “Nah, man, it’s okay.”

“Really?” Rhys scrutinized him. “Look, I know we just found out about this two weeks ago, but it seems like she was a pretty big part of your life.” He paused. “At least that’s how Amren made it out to be.”

“Goddamn Amren. How does she know all of our secrets?” Cassian wondered out loud. “I meant the Nesta secret. Not the part-of-my-life part.”

“Cassian, it’s okay to admit that you cared about her.”

“That’s not what I’m . . .” He trailed off before noticing Rhys’s intense gaze. “You obviously have something to say.”

“Can I be completely honest?”

“Of course. When have you ever had to ask me that?”

Rhys laughed, then rubbed his jaw. “I . . . when I heard about it, I didn’t believe it. Especially since I heard it from Feyre who heard it from Elain who heard it from Azriel who heard it from Amren. There were many degrees of separation, and I doubted it all.”

Cassian nodded. “Too many people between you and the message in Telephone.”

“Exactly. And after I got over the shock, I . . . found myself taking sides already. Forming my own idea of what must have happened.” There was the slightest bit of regret in Rhys’s violet eyes.

Realization dawned on him. “So you blamed Nesta for everything.”

“Yeah. It took Feyre beating some sense into me before I . . . stopped saying some pretty terrible stuff.” Rhys ran a hand through his hair, a nervous tick they both shared. “But Cass, honestly, I still have my misgivings about her.”

“I know.” Feyre and Nesta had never been on the best of terms, and if Rhys felt someone was mistreating his fiancée, he would choose Feyre. Every time.

“But I also want you to be happy,” Rhys continued. “And I trust your judgement. If you say that you truly care for Nesta, then I have no right to interfere.” He looked more closely at Cassian. “But I have to ask—”

“—is she coming back?” Cassian finished.

Rhys gave him an apologetic smile.

The photographer downed the rest of his beer and exchanged it for a few containers of dip. “I guess we’ll see.”

~*~

“Ms. Archeron, your rent was due several days ago.”

Nesta shifted her bag from one arm to another. “I know, Mr. Jones, but I—” she rubbed at her eyes, stifling a small sigh. “Look, I’ve never missed a bill except for this one. I have a good reputation—” _Ha! Who are you trying to fool?_ “—And I promise, I will find a way to pay as soon as possible.”

The concierge looked at her, a spark of pity in his eyes. “I’m not the landlord, Ms. Archeron. You don’t have to tell me that.”

She laughed, a tired noise. “Of course. I’m sorry for that.”

Mr. Jones cocked his head. “I do hope you find the resources to stay, Ms. Archeron. It would be a shame to see you go.”

_A shame to see you go._ Those were the words that consumed her mind the entire trip from the elevator up to the fifth floor down the hall to her door. They were a courtesy her old employers had not offered her.

She had been working as a temp for weeks now, as a legal secretary. It was tedious work; reading over legal documents, working on court filings. All things that she was overqualified—and now, apparently underqualified—for. Nesta resisted the urge to gnash her teeth together as she thought of the other temps—all fresh out of college, bumbling this way and that, unsure of how to do things.

Had she ever been like that?

The pay was barely above minimum wage, but she supposed she should have been glad it wasn’t lower. Still, it wouldn’t be enough to cover her rent. Nesta had money saved up in the bank from her job, and she had certain expensive belongings that she could sell, but . . . she was unwilling to accept it. Accept that she was not the person of a few weeks prior, that there was a good chance she would never be the person of a few weeks prior. For no matter how sincere, how good Thompson and Smith’s promises were, she couldn’t lie. _Why did you leave your previous job?_ And she’d have to swallow the bitterness in her mouth and reply. Lying in the city’s legal circuit never got you anywhere good, and lawyers were the biggest gossips.

A slip of white on the ground caught her eye as she was hanging her jacket up. Nesta bent down to pick it up.

_You are cordially invited to the photography exhibit of Cassian Tassos on October 16—_

It was all she could do to stop herself from crumpling the invitation in her fist and letting it flutter back to the ground. Nesta pressed her back against the door, sliding down. She closed her eyes.

She hadn’t let herself think about Cassian for the past few weeks because when she did, their last conversation played on a loop in her mind. Her words echoed in her head, relentless in its attacks. And his words . . .

Nesta stared at the invitation, still trapped in one white-knuckled grip. There was an ulterior motive behind this, she was sure. Cassian always had a reason behind his actions. Did he . . . did he want to get back together with her? No. That was impossible. No one in their right mind would ever choose to date her, let alone forgive her for what she had said. This was most likely a last hurrah before he went off to Europe. He had probably invited everyone he knew, and she had been swept up in the mix.

Nesta jolted as a sharp _rap rap rap_ sounded at her door. Did she have a visitor? Why hadn’t Mr. Jones told her? She quickly stashed the invitation into her purse, smoothed out the creases on her dress, and opened the door.

Her grip on the knob tightened as she saw who it was.

Rhysand stood on the other side. Her only consolation was that he looked as uncomfortable as she felt. “Hello, Nesta. May I come in?”

A short nod.

Her entire body was stiff as she watched Rhysand walk into her apartment. Her irritation only flamed as she realized he looked like he belonged there more than she did. His neat peacoat and loafers made it seem as if he was the one paying the rent, not her in her wrinkled outfit and undereye bags.

The Nesta of a few weeks prior wouldn’t have even let Rhysand in. She would have sneered at him from the doorway, and waited until one of them conceded and left.

The Nesta of today watched him silently as he swept an assessing gaze over her home.

“I’m sorry to drop by like this.” Rhysand finally turned to her. She didn’t respond. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m here.”

“Yes.”

“Let’s cut to the chase, then.” Rhysand took a seat at the kitchen counter, his violet eyes still fixed on her. “I want to offer you a job.”

Nesta stared at him. Then laughed incredulously. “I don’t need your pity, Rhysand.” He opened his mouth to respond, but she cut in. “Just because you’re marrying my sister doesn’t mean you have an automatic responsibility to take care of everyone in her life.”

He was silent, but she knew it was far from over. That she and Rhysand were too alike for anything less than a full-blown argument.

“Do you know what I said when Feyre first told me about how you left for college?”

Most people said _when_ you left for college. Rhysand had said _how._

Nesta inhaled sharply. Knowing that this was going to a place she had locked deep down in her heart, hoping, praying for it to never see the light of day. “No,” she croaked weakly.

“She told me about how at school, the teachers loved you because you were the brightest one. They loved Elain because she was the sweetest one, and the teachers forgot about Feyre altogether.” Rhysand leaned forward. “Because while you and Elain were at school, she was working odd jobs—illegal for a minor—to make sure that you could stay there.”

Nesta’s breath hitched in her throat.

And out came the truth.

That she was a selfish, vain pig who had let her youngest sister rub elbows with the scum

of the city for a few dollars a day. Feyre knew. Rhysand knew. Cassian knew, from one night when she had been drunk and had cried it all out while vomiting into the toilet bowl.

“So why offer me a job at all?” Nesta’s voice was barely above a whisper.

Rhys fiddled with the edge of his sleeve. “When Feyre told me how you up and left for college without a second thought, you know what I said?”

Silence.

“I said that I would never forgive you.”

What irony there was, Nesta Archeron, star lawyer, being talked down to in her own home. Stripped of her walls one by one, by a man she had loathed for so long. There was nothing to hold onto where she was standing, in the middle of the floor, and she felt as though it might have been better if she just fainted and blocked out the world. She was good at it.

“But Feyre also told me about how you scoured the city for her when you heard she’d fallen in with Tamlin’s friends. And recently, she told me that she was happy because she felt like the two of you were moving beyond the past.” Rhysand leveled a look at her. “Nesta, I will never forgive you for what you did to Feyre when you were younger. But—” he shook his head as if he, too, could not believe what he was about to do. “I believe in redemption. And from what Feyre tells me, you believe in it too. So, Nesta Archeron, I have a proposition for you.” He slid off of the stool and placed himself in front of her. Taller than her by several inches. Looking down at her. “Come work for me. Be my company lawyer. My current one is about to retire next year, and with Hybern up my ass, I need all the help I can get.”

“It’s unwise,” Nesta said quietly. She had assumed that sometime between her firing and their breakup, news of her and Cassian had been exposed already. But Rhysand hadn’t mentioned it. So she bit her tongue.

“Perhaps,” he admitted. “But this is your path to becoming the lawyer you wanted to be before you were fired. If you don’t take this offer, you’ll have to work from the bottom up again.”

“How can you do that?” Nesta shook her head.

Rhysand adjusted his watch. “Do what?”

“Just . . . that.” The words were lodged in her throat. She wondered if she had ever been able to name it in the first place.

“Forgive?” Rhysand took a deep breath, his eyes faraway. “For what you did to my fiancée and my brother?”

She pressed her lips together.

“This isn’t my forgiveness, Nesta. Feyre and Cassian control that. This is something I am doing because I love both of them, and I have faith in you.” His violet eyes were austere. “So, Nesta Archeron,” Rhysand held out his hand. “Do we have a deal?”

~*~

A bell tinkled as she opened the door.

The gallery where Cassian was having his exhibit was a small one, hidden behind a larger store selling rare artifacts. Nesta heard the echo of her high heels’ clicks as she made her way to the back.

The city had completed its metamorphosis into autumn, the weather becoming chillier and lighter, so unlike the heatwaves and half-arid half-damp tempest of summer. Nesta took off her coat, her face already warm from the heating.

When she stepped through the doorway to the gallery, she froze.

Cassian stood in the middle of the room, a soft smile on his face. “Hello, sweetheart.”

There was no one else in the room. Nesta made no move to walk towards him. She simply stood there, staring at him. Arms and coat tucked close to her chest.

They stared at each other, neither bending. No matter how much her heart ached, how much it bled and screamed for him. To right her wrongs and to make it better.

“I’m sorry.” The words came out in a whisper, echoed softly throughout the gallery.

Nesta didn’t realize she was crying until Cassian was before her, thumbs wiping away her tears.

“That’s okay,” he murmured. He pressed her to his chest, her tears soaking his shirt. “That’s okay, sweetheart.”

Nesta shook her head violently. Cassian pressed a kiss to her hair. “I didn’t mean it.”

She could have sworn she felt him smile against the top of her head. “I know, Nesta.”

“But I—”

“—no.” He drew her back, cupping her face again. “Don’t do this to yourself, Nesta.” He nodded further into the gallery. “Shall we?”

Her hand was warm in his grip as he brought her into the exhibit. At the first photo, she gasped.

It was the photo of her from that afternoon, the one where they’d slept together for the first time. The one that she had completely forgot to delete. Nesta’s mouth was open, in the middle of a word. Her eyebrows drawn together in concentration, her eyes fixed directly at the photographer. But behind her, sunlight streamed through the windows, bathing her light in a warm glow. Her posture was casual. Simple.

“Cassian . . .” Nesta looked around the exhibit. They were pictures of her, of them. Her looking down at a book, the two of them having dinner. Tears flooded her eyes again.

His arms wrapped around her waist, his chin coming to rest on her shoulder. “I know, it’s a bit creepy,” Cassian admitted. “But I—” He was cut off by her pressing her lips to his, her heels rocked forward so that she could reach him.

His lips were warm against hers, her entire chest on fire as he kissed her fiercely. They broke away breathless, his amber gaze holding her stormy one.

She swallowed, looking up at him as a thought crossed her mind. “I thought you were leaving for Spain.”

Cassian shook his head. “Not yet. But, Nesta—” he slipped his arm around her waist, drawing her to his side. Nesta leaned unconsciously into him. “I want you to come with me.”

She leaned back, looking up at him in incredulity. “What?”

“Come with me,” he insisted. “At least for part of it. I know you’ve always wanted to see Paris and London and Amsterdam and all the rest.” Cassian seized her fingers and pressed a soft kiss to her knuckles. “Come with me.”

“Cassian, I can’t. I’m getting back on my feet, and I—”

“—Rhys will hold your position for you, no matter how long you’re gone.” At her surprised expression, he laughed. “My brothers and I have no secrets.” He reached out a hand to brush a strand of her hair behind her ear.

“So what about it, Nesta Archeron?” Cassian whispered. “Will you travel the world with

me?”

She’d never done anything of the sort. She’d barely left the state in her life. But her answer was certain. Certain, driven by the deep reverberation of a word within her. One word.

Kismet.

She’d been wrong that day on the pavement outside her old office building.

Perhaps she and Cassian hadn’t fit together in their alternate universes, their alternate lifetimes (if there was such a thing). But _this_ universe, _this_ lifetime—it was theirs.

“Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my Tumblr: [goldbooksblack](https://goldbooksblack.tumblr.com/) for more!  
> 

**Author's Note:**

> Check out my Tumblr: [goldbooksblack](https://goldbooksblack.tumblr.com/) for more!  
> \---  
> “Je voudrais ce qu’elle a” _I would like what she has_
> 
> “Bonjour, mademoiselle. Comment allez-vous?” _Hello, miss. How are you?_
> 
> “Vous n’êtes pas français, oui? Vous ressemblez à un american. Ou un britannique, non? Vous devez être l’un d’artistes énervants.”  
>  _You are not French, yes? You look like an American. Or a Brit(ish person), no? You must be one of those annoying artists._
> 
> la huitième arrondissement _the eighth neighborhood (of Paris)_
> 
> L’Avenue des Champs-Élysées _a famous avenue in Paris lined with shops_
> 
> L’Arc de Triomphe _a monument to fallen soldiers in Paris_
> 
> Sorbonne _an esteemed university in Paris_
> 
> “Puis-je assister à vous, monsieur?” _Can I help you, sir?_
> 
> “Je cherche une dame? Elle s’appelle Nesta Archeron.” _I am looking for a lady? Her name is Nesta Archeron._
> 
> “Mademoiselle Archeron est sortie hier.” _Miss Archeron left yesterday._
> 
> “Desolé? Je—je ne comprends pas.” _Sorry? I—I don’t understand._
> 
> “Est-ce-que vous êtes Monsieur Tassos?” _Are you Mister Tassos?_
> 
> “Un moment, s’il vous plaît.” _A moment, please._
> 
> “Mademoiselle Archeron a laissé ça pour vous.” _Miss Archeron left this for you._


End file.
